


Finding The Will

by venea_taur



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Depression, Force-Feeding, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-17 01:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venea_taur/pseuds/venea_taur
Summary: One day d'Artagnan asks why they are the only three who have the "All for one-One for all" hands in the middle cheer (for lack of better words). The three tell him how it began with their first mission after Savoy.After Porthos is wounded in a skirmish, Athos and Aramis, despite their own injuries, split up. Athos continues on with the mission while Aramis takes Porthos to a village to recover. In time, Porthos finds that, while still healing from his own injuries, Aramis has been lying to him about his recovery and his current injuries. Then, Athos shows up nearly unconscious and seriously ill. As he tries to keep both men alive, despite their best efforts to kill themselves, he finds he has to reach out for help himself. Will Treville be as forgiving as Porthos about their recklessness? How can Porthos convince them to stay in the regiment?





	1. d'Artagnan's Question

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first chapter fic in years, so I'm feeling a bit rusty. It is complete (I learned that lesson a while ago), but I won't be posting it all right away. I still have some minor editing to deal with. The story has a bit of a slow build and not much in the way of action, but there is a plot, and a lot of character thought and, hopefully, development. Most of it takes place in just one room.

“That hands in the middle thing,” D’Artagnan started, fiddling with his cup of wine. He and the other three were in a tavern not far from the garrison. “I haven’t seen any of the other Musketeers doing that.”

“You won’t,” Athos answered. 

“It’s just us,” Aramis added. 

“Why?” The two men sitting across from him looked into their cups.

“It was Porthos’ doing,” Aramis finally answered.

“I thought…”

“It would’ve been me, right?” Aramis smiled slightly.

“Well, it does seem like your sort of thing.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Aramis looked towards Athos, who shrugged his shoulders and gave a slight quirk of his lips.

“Back then, neither of us were in the ‘All for one’ mood,” Athos said.

“Not sure that ‘one for all’ suited us all that well either.”

Aramis tipped his cup in agreement.

“What happened,” D’Artagnan asked. 

“It was five years ago,” Porthos said, taking a seat next to D’Artagnan, “and these two were more concerned with the quickest way to die than keep on living.”

D’Artagnan looked at Aramis and Athos. Neither denied Porthos’ statement, but they didn't say anything either. So, D’Artagnan turned back to Porthos.

“Aramis was mostly recovered from his wounds from Savoy. Still had the occasional headache and dizziness, but never told us. Athos, if you think he drinks a lot now, he was well into his cups back then. I don't think he spent a single moment sober. I'm not even sure how he was commissioned ‘cept the regiment was decimated by Savoy and facing increased pressure from the king to expand to deal with the Huguenot uprisings.”

“I assure you,” Athos said without anger, “I earned my pauldron just like you. The captain never knew until well after.”

“But you were quite drunk then,” Aramis commented.

“I didn't think you noticed.”

“Many things escaped my attention then, but one would be hard pressed to miss your drinking.”

Athos nodded.

“What happened,” D’Artagnan asked.

“He's like a child,” Porthos teased. The lad scowled slightly while the others chuckled. “We were out on a mission, our first real mission since Savoy. Nothing too difficult, just playing delivery man for His Majesty when a horde of bandits came rushing out on horseback from the forest. I still don’t remember much of the fighting, but we beat them.”

“Porthos doesn’t remember much because he took a nasty hit to the head,” Aramis commented.


	2. Splitting Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the meat of the story. With Porthos wounded and unable to go on, Athos and Aramis split up. Athos continues on with the mission, while Aramis takes Porthos to a nearby village. There, Aramis works to ignore his own injuries and memories to help Porthos.

“He’s bleeding pretty bad, Athos.” Aramis was kneeling next to Porthos, who hadn’t made so much as a moan of pain since taking a hit from a pistol handle to his head. The marksman was still in shock over how quickly the larger man had gone down. Around them were a number of dead bandits. Between the three of them, none of the twenty who attacked them survived. Their attention, however, was on Porthos, who was bleeding heavily from a head wound. There were some minor cuts and scrapes as well as some spots that they could see would soon bruise, but otherwise, he'd no visible injuries. Aramis thanked God for small mercies. He may have his doubts about God right now, but such small prayers and offerings of thanks were second nature. 

“Other than the head wound, what are his injuries,” Athos asked. He was kneeling on the other side of Porthos. 

“There are some ribs that are loose, but they don’t feel broken.” Aramis carefully felt the ribs, pressing gently so as not to further injure. “Looks like three, maybe four. He’s not going to be able to ride far, even if he was conscious.”

“There's a village nearby,” Athos said. “One of us can get him there while the other goes on.”  
For the moment, Aramis ignored the proposed plan. He visually examined Athos, knowing that the man wouldn’t actually let him near. There seemed to be nothing serious, just some areas that would soon begin bruising. 

“You know that we can’t delay any further on this message.” Athos didn’t need to remind him. He remembered Treville’s warning that it was of the utmost importance that the message arrived by Thursday. It was Wednesday now and if they rode without pause they would make it just in time. The route would be dangerous, even more so now with the increased potential of a bandit attack. It would be too dangerous to consider taking an injured man all the way there. Not that it would be safe for just a single rider either. 

“I’ll take the message,” Aramis said. “You take Porthos to the village. I’ll ride back once I drop it off and meet you there.”

“And how far would you make it?”

Aramis gave him a puzzled look.

“Would you really be able to fend off any attackers with your shoulder wrenched out of place as it is?”

Was it out of place? He had to admit he hadn’t really noticed. There was some pain in his left shoulder and his arm wasn’t cooperating with him, but it was a simple fix.

“Put it back in place and I’ll be off.”

Athos gave him a look he didn’t like: absolutely not.

“So how I am supposed to fare any better getting Porthos to the village,” Aramis snapped.

“You’ll have help there. Let’s first get your shoulder set and then we’ll bind his ribs and take care of the head wound.” His tone brokered no argument.

They worked together to take care of Aramis’ shoulder and Porthos’ wounds. The arm would have to be bound later, but for now, Aramis needed the full range of motion to keep Porthos steady on the horse. During their ministrations and clumsy movements to get Porthos on Aramis’ horse, the larger man never woke, nor uttered a single moan. It wasn’t so much that he was that much bigger than them, but that they were not in their peak physical shape. Both knew, though wouldn’t ever admit, it wasn’t the battle or its aftermath that was the real culprit. They were both men in their prime of life but felt well past. In their melancholy, what was once muscle had lost much of its tone and both showed the effects of skipping more than the occasional meal. They were weary, not from battle, but from life.

Aramis waited long enough in the meadow to watch Athos ride off. In their movements to help Porthos, he was sure Athos was hiding an injury. The swordsman had nearly lost his balance more than once and had to be paler than normal. But it could have been the lingering hangover, as well. The man drank more than he ate; how he was still alive was a mystery to Aramis. 

Once he could no longer see the older man, Aramis prodded his horse to start moving. It was awkward and slow going. Porthos sat limply in front of him. They’d tied his feet to the saddle give him more stability and leave Aramis with less that he had to balance with his wounded shoulder. He held the reins with both hands, his arms awkwardly looped around Porthos’ waist. The reins to Porthos’ tied to his horse’s saddle, though the horse likely would’ve followed anyway. This left him with less to worry about. 

He arrived in the village during the mid-afternoon, perhaps a few hours after leaving the skirmish site. It wasn’t that it was further than Athos said, but he’d had to move slowly to keep his awkward grip on Porthos and deal with his shoulder, which he was only reluctantly admitting to himself was painful. Finding the inn and help in getting Porthos to a room turned out to be an easy task. The small village was welcoming, especially to a couple of wounded Musketeers. 

The room had two beds and a table with a couple chairs. There was a window facing the west and looking out onto a grassy meadow. It was a quiet room, for which Aramis was grateful. Whenever Porthos decided to regain consciousness, he would need the quiet to deal with his pounding head. And, Aramis had no real desire to be around noise or people. In fact, he’d given the innkeeper instructions to send wine and meals to the room. He explained that he couldn’t afford to leave his friend while he was so injured. The innkeeper gave the two a look over but said nothing negative about the strange request. 

With the innkeeper gone, Aramis set about unpacking and taking care of Porthos. He stripped the man of his weapons, doublet, boots, and stockings. In the process, he re-examined him. Other than the wound his head, there were no major cuts. The head wound, he cleaned and stitched, all the while steadfastly ignoring the pain in his shoulder, his shaking hands, and the nagging voice of Athos in his head to bind the arm as soon as he settled in. 

“Honestly, Athos, how do you expect me to bind it if I don’t have a second set of hand,” he said aloud to the Athos in his head. He hoped it would shut the voice up. The consistent, dull tone was only serving to make him more annoyed with the man than he usually was. There wasn’t anything he could point to that made him dislike him. The certain air of refinedness that he carried was odd because he couldn’t place it, but the usual haughtiness that accompanied such refinedness was lacking completely. Though some of that could be that the man was nearly always drinking. It didn’t affect his Musketeer duties, not after the one incident when he’d been so drunk he lost to Porthos in a practice duel. His sword went flying as Porthos deftly knocked it out of his hand and sent it clattering in front of Treville. That had at least curbed some of Athos’ drinking.  
He wrapped some bandaging around the head wound and moved onto the ribs. He undid their hurried bandaging. With the closer examination, he found he’d been correct in his diagnosis to Athos earlier. Just some cracked ribs, nothing broken. Re-wrapping the ribs wasn’t easy, but he knew that it’d provide some comfort once Porthos woke and keep him from further injuring them. 

With Porthos taken care of, Aramis carefully removed his own doublet. Other than the dislocated shoulder, he’d gotten a cut on his leg, which had long since stopped bleeding, so he cleaned it and wrapped a bandage around it. He then settled in for a long wait, making sure to keep a clear eye on Porthos. The man hadn’t moved on his own since he was knocked unconscious hours earlier. Aramis might have been worried, but he was a trained medic and knew that this wasn’t uncommon with head wounds. If the man didn’t wake by tomorrow, then he’d have something to worry about. 

He was glad to be done and really wanted nothing more than to lay on the other bed, but he needed to keep watch. Sitting up left him feeling as though his head weighed twice as much as it should. Standing wasn’t much better as he was often off-balance and definitely lacked his usual grace, though that had been missing for a couple months now. The world still spun when he sat, but he could manage it better. Closing his eyes helped with the blurriness and tilting of his surroundings, but he could not afford to do so right now. So, he forced himself to remain awake and alert. 

Time passed not by the chiming of the bells on the quarter hour as it did in Paris, but by the moving of the sun. As the afternoon passed into evening, the room grew brighter with the lowering sun. The light triggered a headache that seemed to pound in time with the waves of dizziness. A firm series of knocks at the door startled him as they crashed through the silence. He rose from his seat on high alert, the chair tilting over and clashing with the knocks to cause a spike in his headache and the sudden movement made his vision go black. He threw a hand out to steady himself against the table.

“What is it,” he called out. He kept a hand on the table and was bent over, trying to regain his bearings and ease his discomfort.

“Dinner, like you asked for.” It was the innkeeper. Aramis took a deep breath, steeled himself, and straightened to open the door for the man. The innkeeper placed the food and wine on the table and left. The man clearly understood that Aramis was in no mood to idle chitchat or inquiries into other matters. 

When the door closed behind the innkeeper, Aramis lasted seconds before the smell of the food combined with the discomfort he already felt, forced him to make a dash to the chamber pot to vomit. There was little in his stomach to come up. He’d not eaten lunch and had picked at his breakfast. Thus, it was bile and dry heaves before long. He groaned and sank back on his knees when he was finally done. His throat was sore as were his ribs and his headache had increased exponentially, it seemed. 

And still, the smell of food permeated the room. He swallowed carefully.

He rose from his spot to consider his options. As much as he wanted to toss the food outside, that might only serve to irritate the innkeeper who might find it later and Porthos might awaken later and, if not feeling too poorly, be able to eat something. The man was always hungry or at least always ready to eat, a likely byproduct of his childhood in the Court.

So, he took the wine and sat on the other bed as far from the food as he could manage. With his boots off, back against the wall, and feet resting on the bed, he was finally starting to recover. The wine was helping as well. It was slowly numbing his aches, both physical and not. While not the drinker that Athos was, Aramis now was accustomed to drinking his fair share, finding it a suitable balm for the memories that constantly plagued him.

Porthos was none too pleased. Neither was Treville, but Aramis couldn’t be bothered to care. 

Sometime during the night, Porthos began to rouse. Aramis had dropped off to sleep, the now empty wine bottle slipping out of his grasp. He slept lightly as had become custom lately whenever he did manage to sleep, so he woke easily to Porthos’ shiftings and groans of pain. Aramis pushed himself to his feet and walked in the dark room over to Porthos. 

“Porthos,” he called gently. The man was likely to have a terrible headache and waking in the dark wasn’t going to do much for his awareness. Porthos wasn’t fully awake still, but the calling of his name did settle him some. Aramis tried again, forcing himself to not touch his friend. He didn’t want to startle Porthos into any sudden action. It took a few more attempts before Porthos became anywhere near alert and coherent.

“’Mis?” His voice was weak and scratchy from unconsciousness.

“Yeah. How’s your head?”

“Hurts. What happened?”

“We were attacked by bandits en route to deliver a message for the King. You were knocked unconscious.”

Porthos grunted in acknowledgment, rubbing a hand lightly over his head.

“Anywhere else hurt? I couldn’t find anything other than some cracked ribs and some bruises.”

Porthos took a minute to assess his body, working to ignore the overwhelming pounding in his head. 

“Nah, nothing major.”

“Good. You should get some rest. I don’t have any hot water to brew you a tea for the headache, so you’re best off just trying to sleep some of it off.”

“Where are we?”

“A village nearby where we were attacked. Get some rest.”

It was a testament to how much Porthos was hurting that he didn’t ask any further questions. For which, Aramis was grateful. While he knew the Porthos’ head was aching, he himself was starting to become light-headed. It might have been the lack of food or from his own head injury from a couple months ago that refused to heal. Either way, Aramis ignored it and went back to his former position on the bed. 

Aramis slept lightly, unwillingly, waking in starts from both nightmares and Porthos’ movements. Once more during the night, Porthos woke enough to talk coherently. Aramis helped him drink some water, waited until he was asleep again, and returned to his spot on the bed. After his last nightmare, murky snatches of snow covering in patches and blood spurting, splattering, the sharp clashing of metal against metal, he woke with the scent of frantic life or death fighting closing in him on. His stomach churning, he rushed for the chamber pot. Again, it was dry heaves as his stomach clenched painfully and his head pounded. He tried to keep the noise to a minimum so Porthos wouldn't wake, but soon he heard a light shuffling from the bed.

“’Mis?”

“Go back… to sleep.” Aramis didn’t want an audience. There was a reason he slept alone now, why he’d given up showering the lovely ladies of Paris with gifts to afford a cheap apartment where no one knew him and no one would bother him from hearing strange noises. His comrades thought he was back wooing the ladies. If only they knew what he faced in the dirty, run down room. 

Fortunately, Porthos didn't rise. Aramis knew he was only acting on muscle memory, so to speak. It was Porthos who'd been assigned to help him during his recovery. The man was unnervingly patient. He never once asked for him to talk about anything, just sat there with a deck of cards play any number of solitaire games.

Then the doctor released him and Athos came.

Aramis remained by the chamber pot. With his head aching and the light headedness returned, he didn't have the energy to rise. Instead, he sunk back to rest his back against the wall. The floor was dirty and hard, but it might serve better than the bed to keep him awake.


	3. The Table Turned and Uncovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Porthos recovers, Aramis grows increasingly ill. He is desperate to hide it though until one afternoon when his body betrays him. Meanwhile, Porthos begins to wonder if he's in over his head with Aramis and if they'll still lose him to Savoy. And where's Athos?

Daylight came slowly. With the room facing away from the rising sun, light crept into the room, slinky across the beds, floors, and walls. By the time the room was fully illuminated, Porthos was stirring once more. The innkeeper soon came with breakfast and Aramis set it on the table. Porthos ate little and drank some water while waiting on Aramis to brew a tea for the pain. He kept his eyes closed against the light as it only intensified the aching, but he tried to listen to Aramis’ movements. 

He knew the marksman wasn't back to normal. To be honest, he wasn't sure what normal was for the man, but he doubted that it involved this sort of melancholy. He'd seen the man once or twice before he'd been sent on that disastrous training mission and had always appeared to be full of life. Treville had confirmed this when Porthos talked to him about Aramis’ recovery and return to active duty. They both had hoped that getting active again would help to jolt him out of this mood, but it wasn't working. If anything, he was sinking deeper and Athos was no help. The man was just about as melancholic as Aramis and rarely sober. It was odd for a nobleman like Athos to the wind up a common soldier. He certainly had the skills, but the true question was, did he have the demeanor. He'd done nothing wrong so far, but they hadn't done much other than standing guard duty the past couple weeks. This was the first real mission.

They passed a couple days in relative silence. With the pain eased by the tea, Porthos continued sleeping. Aramis went a couple times to check on the horses and once forced himself to eat a little when he nearly passed out in the stable. It was a struggle to keep it down against the growing nausea.

As the sun was setting on their second full day in the village, the room still bright, but not blindingly so, Porthos was finally awake and coherent for more than a few minutes. Aramis was resting on the bed opposite him, once again away from the food sitting on the table. Fatigue was now weighing down on him, adding to the nausea in his stomach and pounding in his head. He’d spent the afternoon with his hat carefully tipped so as to cover his eyes, shading them from the sunlight that flooded the room for much of the afternoon into evening. He’d thought about lying down, hiding under the blankets from the sun, but he couldn’t afford to fall asleep. He didn’t want to see the bloodied snow, watch as his friends were cut down without mercy, be stuck in a hopeless loop of futility trying to save…

“’Mis?” Porthos’ voice pulled Aramis out of his dangerously wandering thoughts. 

“Porthos.” He forced himself off the bed to sit next to Porthos on the other bed. The man was looking and sounding better. He seemed more alert, though it was obvious the pain was back. “How’s your head?”

“Pounding again.”

“I’ll get some of the tea for you.” Aramis quickly fetched the cup with tea and returned to Porthos’ side. “It’s not hot, but it will work still,” he explained as he helped Porthos to sit up some so he could drink. When he’d drained the cup, Porthos laid back with a heavy sigh. The headache was better than the last time he was awake, but it still was overriding any other aches he had, keeping him from thinking. He waited until the pain reliever in the tea took effect. It was still light outside and that was only making the headache worse. Aramis was still sitting beside him on the bed, silent as was customary.

Sometime later, Porthos felt the pounding ease. It was gradual and in waves, returning to full throbbing occasionally. And when it did, he couldn’t help the low groan. His waking hours for the last day, perhaps, he wasn’t sure of how long they’d been here, had been filled with pain from the headache. He was ready to be done. Aramis remained steadfast beside him, though he had shifted some to block out the majority of the sun streaming in on his face. The coolness was almost as much of a relief to his head as the tea.

“Where’s Athos,” he asked at last. His voice was weak. 

“Hopefully, he’s delivered the message by now.”

“You let him go on alone?”

“There was little choice. You weren’t capable of making the journey, so we had to split up. I brought you here. Would you rather it be Athos?” Aramis tried to keep the irritation out his voice, but he knew he was failing. It wasn’t fair to Porthos. It didn’t help that he was fighting against his own aches and pains as well as knowing that it’d been his own failure again that put someone in danger.

“Was he injured?” Porthos decided to ignore the unexpected irritation for now. He wasn’t prepared mentally or physically to deal with Aramis’ moods.

“Nothing immediately obvious, though he wasn’t as steady as normal. It might have been the hangover, or something else. He didn’t leave me much of a chance to check, pompous bastard.”

“What about you?”

“Nothing serious.”

Porthos tried to look Aramis squarely in the eyes to see if he was lying. The man wasn’t a good liar but usually got away with whatever lies he told because of his good looks. He simply distracted people away from seeing that he wasn’t being truthful. Porthos had quickly been able to see past this tactic, but his injuries were affecting this ability. He doubted Aramis was telling the truth, but the man was still standing, which was a far cry better than himself.

“How’s the pain,” Aramis asked.

“Much better, but I think I’m still sore all over.”

“I’m not surprised. You were knocked off your horse. You were quite lucky to escape with the few more serious injuries that you have.”

“Doesn’t feel like it much right now.”

“Head wounds and cracked ribs will do that to you,” Aramis said idly.

They lapsed into silence. 

“You should eat something,” Aramis said at last. Porthos held back a sigh. He wasn’t hungry, but he was loathed to admit it aloud. He knew his reputation. He also knew that he needed to eat to keep up his strength. A weak soldier wasn’t worth much. 

“Help me up first.” Together they got him into a more upright position, leaning now against the wall. The change in position sent his pain up again and left him lightheaded. He waited a moment until he felt more in control to speak again. “What’s for dinner?”

“Cold cuts.”

“Didn’t charm your way with the innkeeper?”

“I asked him to deliver simple meals. You won’t want anything heavy with the pain you’re in. And, I didn’t know when you’d be awake.”

“What about you? Don’t you want a hot meal?” It was a shameless ploy Porthos had come to use to gage Aramis’ state. In the past getting him to eat anything more than nibbles of food was a chore. Full meals took an effort from both of them and didn't always end with Aramis eating anything.

“This is fine with me.” Aramis brought Porthos an array of the bread, cheese, and meat on a plate. Before Porthos had a chance to say anything, he took some for himself and returned to the other bed to slowly eat and pick at his food.

The two settled into a routine as they waited for Athos to return. Porthos slept, waking more often than the first couple days, though. Aramis kept his pain-relieving tea brewed and ready to help Porthos through the worst of the lingering headache. A few times a day, Aramis ventured from the room to tend to the horses, but each time was growing increasingly difficult. With little sleep, fatigue was weighing heavily on him, combining with his aching head and the lightheadedness, making it hard for him to move as he needed. He was sure he’d passed out at least once, perhaps twice in the stables after rising too quickly. Fortunately, no one had been there to see. His shoulder was still aching as well, never having rested it as it should have been, and there was a growing ache in his thigh where he’d been cut. 

By their fourth full day at the inn, Porthos was beginning to walk around, the headache receding enough to allow for more movement, though his ribs made him move slowly, with much-restrained hissing. Both were expecting Athos to return at any moment unless he’d had to wait for a return message. Then it might be another day or two before the man appeared. 

Late in the day, with the afternoon sun fully illuminating the room and Porthos walking around to stretch his legs, he noticed that Aramis’ head had dropped forward as the man settled, finally, into sleep. It was clear to Porthos that the man hadn’t been sleeping. What he wasn’t sure about was if Aramis was genuinely trying to hide the lack of sleep or didn’t care that dark circles around his eyes were larger than Porthos had become accustomed to. The marksman needed some rest and hopefully, he would be so exhausted that his nightmares wouldn’t come to visit. If he thought it’d help, he’d go to tuck the man in, but touching Aramis, or even coming close, when the man was asleep was dangerous. He slept lightly and ready to pounce with deadly force. Porthos worried that he’d been spared at Savoy only for them to lose him to the tension of the aftermath. He knew a body could only take so much stress before it gave out. He’d seen it happen.

All too quickly, Aramis woke himself from his sleep with a sharp gasp. Porthos watched him look around the room frantically. He was checking his surroundings, verifying his what was real against what he thought was real. Porthos had seen Aramis go through this routine often and let him work through it. The marksman was sluggish, however, in his movements. Porthos saw the man swallowing and breathing carefully before going white. He reached for the chamber pot at the same time Aramis made a frantic, hopeless move off the bed. He'd gotten no more than a few inches when the retching began, food first followed by bile and dry heaving. Porthos left the pot and went to his friend’s side holding him up and away from the vomit and rubbing his back. He was familiar with this too. It was an understatement to say that the man had had a rough couple months. 

As Porthos held him, he felt the heat radiating from his body. He held back a curse. It would do no good right now, only serving to sink Aramis further into his well of guilt and melancholy. How much could he blame the man for not telling him about this when he was so deep in misery? How much had Aramis really noticed?

Aramis sank back after the long bout with vomiting. He moved to lay down on the bed, but Porthos caught him.

“Your bed’s a mess. Lay down in mine.” He eased the man up and steadied him as he stood. The movements were slow and he wanted to just pick him up, but with his ribs still aching, he didn't dare, not if he wanted to be able to care for Aramis once he got the man settled. Aramis was nearly to the bed when he stopped.

“I can't take your bed. Where will you sleep?” The words were slowly spoken; they were empty, lost.

“In a chair,” he answered wondering to himself how much he really would sleep tonight. 

“No, I'll take the chair. You're hurt. You need the bed to sleep in.”

Statements like these made Porthos want to smack Aramis. He was far too comfortable with putting his health behind others. He could only guess if this was a new development or a life habit. He chose to ignore Aramis and gently push the man towards the bed. 

He let Aramis lie down while he took stock of the man’s health. There were the obvious things he'd noted already: pale and dark circles around his eyes. His forehead was crinkled in pain and eyes firmly shut. Then he spotted the bandage wrapped around Aramis’ right thigh. As he sat next to his friend, he undid the bandage. Underneath the wound was yellow with pus and a violent red around the edges. 

“Did you know this was infected,” he asked.

“Umm…” Aramis’ reply was largely incoherent and he doubted the man had even tried to say anything helpful. 

“Why didn't you sew this?” It wasn't a bad wound, or wouldn't have been if it weren't infected. He needed to get to the wound and while he could do that by ripping a larger hole in Aramis’ pants, which the man deserved on some level, it would be easiest for him to remove the pants entirely. He needed to be able to get the area clean and keep it clean while the infection cleared up. It would be best, for both the wound and the rising fever, to strip Aramis to his smallclothes. He could then also check for other injuries, which he was sure the man was hiding. 

Unsurprisingly, Aramis was little help in the process. It seemed he’d hit a wall with the vomiting and his body wasn’t ready to cooperate. He did listen to Porthos, as best he could. It was still mostly Porthos’ effort, however. Porthos took a moment to examine Aramis’ body. His left shoulder was bruised and swollen. A question about that got him nothing but mumbles. His best guess was dislocation, based on the bruising pattern. He’d have to find something to bind it with. Bruises also marred his chest and stomach. He felt the areas gently, checking for anything that might be broken. He hoped that Aramis would’ve done something to brace the ribs if they were broken, but he didn’t trust the man with his own life. With others, yes, but not his own. Fortunately, it was just bruising. 

Other than injuries from the skirmish a couple of days ago, there were obvious signs of Aramis’ lack of care. The recovery from Savoy had been hell on Aramis’ body. It wasn’t just the physical recovery from exposure and the head injury, which left him easily nauseous and pained from headaches, it was the mental recovery that had plagued him. They had expected trouble, but no one had truly witnessed his struggles until Porthos happened to be walking past the marksman’s room late at night. Aramis all but demanded to be alone, from the moment he awoke, and there was no one, not even Treville, who would deny him this single wish. They checked on him and he seemed fine, even if he rarely spoke. But that night, Porthos heard the muffled ramblings in French, Spanish, and sometimes Latin. He stood outside the door, listening to the frantic pacing, steady for the most part. Then there was a loud crash and Porthos broke through the door without a thought. He found Aramis on the floor, leaning against his bed, across from him, against the wall was the remnants of his meal. When the ramblings started without a glance at his visitor, Porthos opted to simply sit down next to the man. He didn’t know him well, but he knew that this time of night could be the worst for nightmares and nefarious voices.

Two months were gone and they all thought he was getting better. He seemed to at least be eating more, but it appeared that was another lie he was telling them. Though far from starved, his shoulder bones were sticking out harshly against his skin and he’d lost muscle all over. Aramis wasn’t the muscular man Porthos was, but the toned muscles had been obvious. The whole appearance made him look both younger and older than his years. 

“Porthos,” Aramis said quietly, weakly, “you should be resting.”

“As soon as I’m done with you.”

“Just let me be.” Aramis moved to roll away from Porthos, but Porthos stopped the movement with a hand on the man’s hip. Even there, he could easily feel the bone and the loss of muscle. 

“No, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. We’ve got to take care of this cut on your thigh at the very least.”

“Took care of it.” Aramis sounded more distant this time and shifted restlessly on the bed.

“It’s infected. I’m going to have to clean it,” Porthos explained as he started working on the wound. The smallclothes already were torn, so he simply made the rip larger. He found a clean rag and a bowl of water along with Aramis’ kit of medical supplies and set to work on the painful process of cleaning out the cut. The marksman was quiet and still during the ordeal. Porthos could feel him clenching his body some, but other than that he was strangely silent. 

When the wound was clean, he wrapped a bandage around it. Aramis was still awake, but now was clenching his fists with his good arm resting above his head. Porthos checked the injured shoulder, finding it was in alignment still and bound it tightly to Aramis’ chest. 

“Do you have more of that tea,” Porthos asked.

“Need to brew it.” Aramis’ voice was strained. Porthos went to the table where he found the tea and a kettle. The kettle still had some water, though it was lukewarm. It would hardly do for brewing tea. He’d have to go get the innkeeper to bring up more. If he could make it down without passing out. The adrenaline from discovering Aramis’ wounds was nearly worn off, leaving him with a pounding head again and decidedly off balance. 

“Sit,” Aramis said. “He’ll be up soon. I think.”

Porthos sank heavily into a chair. Whether it was by Aramis’ command or his body’s, he wasn’t sure. 

“Can you make it until then?”

“Can you,” Aramis retorted. “Come, lay down.” He moved to sit up.

“Don’t move,” Porthos said firmly, well as firmly as he could manage with his headache.

“You should lie down. Better for your head.”

“And I doubt you should even try sitting up.”

There was silence at their stubborn impasse. Porthos was trying to get comfortable in his chair, but keeping his head anywhere near upright was only making it worse. Aramis was right. 

“Alright, shove over a bit and I’ll lie down here. There’s enough room for the both of us.”

Porthos helped Aramis to move over so he was up against the wall, though still lying flat. Then he joined him, letting out a sigh of relief. The effort had increased the pain of both of them, leaving them breathing heavily. Laying there, Porthos could feel the heat coming off of Aramis. He’d need to see if he had something with them to take care of that.  
Porthos dozed off at some point, coming awake when the innkeeper knocked at the door. Porthos worked to rise, calling out for the man to enter. He came in with a tray of food, wine, and hot water. He sniffed the air as Porthos sat up.

“My apologies,” Porthos said. “My friend was sick and couldn’t make it off the bed in time.”

“He hasn’t been looking too well. Can’t say I’m surprised. I can take the coverings now, get the smell out of here, but cleaning will be longer. I’m all filled up or I’d put you two in another room.”

“That’s alright. We’re grateful for your help these past few days.”

“Always happy to help. Seemed like he needed it anyway. There’s a dark cloud following that one.” The innkeeper pointed to Aramis, who was restless, muttering but had yet to awaken. That alone was worrying enough.

“Yes, has been for a while now, I’m afraid.”

“You need anything more than food and wine?”

“More water, both hot and cold later on.”

“I can bring it up once I close up for the night.”

“Is there a physician around?”

“He died last year. Haven’t been able to find a new one.”

Porthos held back a curse. He knew the basics of medical care, but beyond battle injuries, he was largely ignorant. Aramis had the knowledge, he knew, but he wasn’t sure if the man was going to use it to save himself.

“Sometime in the next day or two, a man named Athos should be arriving to meet us here.”

“He a musketeer like the two of you?”

“Yeah, but hopefully in a better state than the two of us.”

“I’ll send him up when he arrives.” 

Porthos thanked the man and set about making the pain-relieving tea as the innkeeper left with the dirty bedclothes. He had a feeling he was in over his head with Aramis. After spending much of the last couple months helping him, encouraging him nothing had worked. It seemed that Aramis was determined to remain in this mood of self-loathing. Though he was worried about Athos, he was grateful that the man wasn’t here. He didn’t think he could handle two dour moods with the way he was feeling.

When the tea was ready, he poured out two cups, taking a couple big sips of his own. He picked up Aramis’ and went to wake the man. He was groggy at first but woke enough to drink the tea with Porthos’ help.

“Do you have something to help your fever,” Porthos asked once Aramis was relaxing again. 

“Don’t have a fever. It’s the sun. Comes in every afternoon. Heats it all up.”

“You have a fever. Trust me, Aramis. Do you have something?”

“It’s not much,” Aramis said after a long pause. “Best to use it as last resort.”

He decided to trust Aramis’ judgment. He’d wait to see how the fever did over the night. Perhaps with the cleaned out wound, it’d start to go down.

“You should eat,” he said.

“Not hungry.” 

“That from the pain or something else?”

“Both, I think.” He was surprised at the mostly honest answer.

“Still, just eat some of the bread. Just a few bites. You’re going to need your strength to heal.” Porthos picked up some of the food for himself and a small piece, the size of his fist, for Aramis. 

“I said I wasn’t hungry.”

“I’m not giving you a choice here. You need to eat to recover. You’re already working your way towards being nothing more than skin and bones.”

Aramis didn’t move except to sigh.

“Now, come on, I’ll help you sit up a bit. Eating flat on your back won’t do you any good.” Porthos set the food aside and started pulling the man into an upright position. About half way up, Aramis started helping. Once he was leaning against the wall and seemed to have gained some of the color back he’d lost in the movement, Porthos handed him the bread. “Eat it slowly. Just little bits. But, please, try to eat it all.” He looked Aramis straight in the eyes, hoping the man would see the concern and worry there. If nothing else, this might work.

They ate, in Aramis’ case slowly. He did manage to eat every bit of the bread, even though he looked ready to stop a number of times. Porthos helped him lay back down, pulled the chamber pot closer in case they needed it, and then settled in for the night next to Aramis. 

It was still dark when Porthos woke to Aramis muttering and shifting about. Before he was even fully alert, he knew it wasn’t Aramis trying to get more comfortable. He was in the middle of a nightmare. Touching Aramis as this point was dangerous. The man slept on a razor’s edge and it was even worse during a nightmare. The first time he’d nearly been stabbed with a knife Aramis had hiding under the pillow. He was careful after that. 

Carefully, he sat up in bed, moving mostly to the edge. His head ached slightly, but he pushed that to the side as he worked to pull Aramis from his nightmare. He’d found the best way was to alternatively call his name and reassure him that he was in a safe place. He kept his voice gentle, but firm and loud enough that Aramis would hear it above his own noises, but not loud enough to startle him. 

In time it worked, as it always did.

Aramis awoke, startled and with a gasp. He sat up quickly, too quickly for his stomach. Porthos saw him go pale in the moonlight and grabbed the chamber pot before Aramis could make a mess in their only clean bed. There wasn’t much to bring up, and like before, he was left with the painful dry heaving. When he was done, at last, he collapsed back on the bed, spent and breathing heavily, his good arm wrapped around his stomach as he moved onto his side and curled up. Porthos set the chamber pot back on the floor and returned to check on Aramis. He was warmer and sweaty, though that wasn’t probably from the fever, but the force of vomiting.

“How’re you feeling,” he asked. It was a silly question to ask, but he needed to keep Aramis anchored in the present, not drifting back in time.

“Stupid question,” Aramis said breathily.

“Maybe, but still answer it.”

“Hot. Tired. Hurt.”

“What hurts?”

Aramis paused. For a while, long enough to make Porthos nervous.

“Aramis?”

“Everything.” That single word was inundated with a bone-weary exhaustion, dejection, despondency. It struck a chord in Porthos, a fear, and concern that he hadn’t felt since he lost his mother. 

“How can I help?”

Silence again. Then a faint sniffling.

“Aramis?” Porthos moved closer to the man. He couldn’t make out his entire body in the dimming moonlight, but he suspected he was crying. This wasn’t the first time. It’d happened frequently in the beginning when he was frustrated with his limitations and overcome with emotions from his dreams and memories. Fatigue had brought his emotions closer to the surface and despondency had made him not care about hiding those emotions.

“I’m tired, Porthos. I want it to stop. That’s all I want.”

Porthos didn’t know what to say. It’d do no good to say that it would stop in time. The rational side of Aramis knew this and that’s not what he needed to hear now. Instead, he remained steadfastly next to Aramis. He eventually, moved up to rest his back against the wall and stretch his legs out on the bed. Aramis, lightly dozing, unconsciously moved closer to him. As Porthos kept watch, waiting for the darkness to pass, he gently rubbed/massaged Aramis’ head with one hand.

It was well into the afternoon the next day and Athos had yet to arrive. Aramis was little better than last night. He was a little more aware and had managed to keep down a light broth Porthos’d asked the innkeeper to bring up. Still, the fever raged as did his nightmares. His shifting between sleep and consciousness no doubt made the dreams all the more confusing. Porthos kept a keen eye on him, ready for when he began to show signs of arousing to remind him of where he was and when. 

He did his best to look after himself, knowing he needed his strength to care for Aramis. Though his head still ached, the worse part of his injuries were the cracked ribs. Any movement caused sharp twinges of pain and sitting too long in one position left him stiff and uncomfortable. He was trying to ration out the pain-relieving tea, knowing that Aramis would need it and not sure of Athos’ condition.


	4. Outnumbered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos finally returns, though he's not in the best of shape. This leaves Porthos with two wounded men to care for and feeling stretched far too thin. Then Aramis gives him some unexpected and shocking advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a new chapter last week, but it didn't register for some reason. I'm still new to how AO3 works, so perhaps I messed something up. 
> 
> Anyway there's more medical stuff in this chapter and I feel I should note that my medical knowledge stems from Google, Wikipedia, and TV, so it's as best as I can get. There's probably some inaccuracies.

Athos arrived with a loud crash. Dirty, pale, and hunched over, Athos only made it up the stairs to their room with the help of the innkeeper. Porthos rose to investigate the noise, telling Aramis to stay put as he’d startled out of his doze with the noise. When he looked out into the hall, he saw the two struggling. Athos had nearly collapsed and was trying, weakly, to rise. Porthos moved quickly to help. With a grimace of his own, he took Athos from the man and all but carried him into the room, dumping him in the other bed, which had been cleaned. The innkeeper followed him, waiting at the doorway to see if anything was needed. 

“Athos,” Porthos said, hoping the man was alert enough to respond. “You awake?”

Athos gave an incoherent mumble, which Porthos took as a decisive not really. The man was dirty and smelled, not surprising considering the riding conditions. He was also fevered. 

“You need anything,” the innkeeper asked. Porthos sighed. He looked at both men, one with a worsening illness and the other with unknown injuries.

“Water, hot and cold, bandages, some rags. I need to get some of this dirt off of him, clean up the cuts.”

“I’ll have them sent up.”

“Any place in town where I can get more herbs?”

“Never had one. The physician would just give us what was needed or we go out and find it ourselves.”

“Is there a messenger in town,” Porthos asked after a pause. He was starting to feel severely out of luck.

“Not a daily service, but given the right amount he can be sent out when needed.”

“I need to get a message back to Paris, to our Captain. He’ll be expecting us back soon and we’re not going to make it.”

“I can pass the message on or have him come up.”

“Send him up.”

“He won’t go out today. It’s too late to safely make it there.”

“That’s fine. Tomorrow’s better than not at all.”

“It’ll be a bit, but I’ll get those supplies up here quick as I can.”

Porthos thanked the man as he left and returned to working on Athos. As he began stripping Athos, he caught Aramis rising out of the corner of his eyes.

“Stop right there, Aramis. You’re too sick to help him.” Porthos gently laid Athos on his side and went to push Aramis back down.

“I’m fine. You’re not the medic. I am.” His voice was as weak as he looked. There was no way he’d be able to help, not without passing out himself and making his condition worse.

“I’m not as bad as you think. Lay back down. You need to rest.” Porthos gently pushed him back down. He tried to put up a struggle, but the fever was sapping any strength he might have had.

“I can help.”

“If I run into trouble, I’ll ask. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

“Won’t let me.” Porthos wasn’t sure if that was a pout or an accusation.

“That’s right. Now, rest and let me see to Athos.”

When Porthos was satisfied that Aramis would stay put, he turned back to Athos. The man hadn’t moved since he left him. He returned to carefully but quickly stripping him to his small clothes.

Once his shirt and trousers were removed, he paused to do a visual examination. He had some bruising near his ribs and a red, infected cut to his right forearm. That was likely the source of the fever. A careful check of the ribs revealed mostly bruising, but also some cracked ribs. He'd have to wrap the ribs, but right now his greater concern was the cut. It was long, traveling at an angle from the front of his wrist to just below the elbow. It looked like Athos had made an attempt to at least clean and bandage it, but that had done little good. The wound was red and seeping a smelly yellow pus. Once the innkeeper returned with the supplies, he set to work cleaning. Never once in his ministrations did Athos wake or move. Aramis did, however, asking after Athos.

Once the wound was cleaned and lightly bandaged, he set about cleaning as much dirt off Athos as he could and taking stock of the other minor cuts and bruises. He begrudgingly enlisted Aramis’ help in wrapping the ribs. They needed to be done properly and for that, he'd need both hands. And his ribs were aching something terrible now. He was sure that if he tried to bandage Athos’ ribs he’d not only hurt Athos more, but he’d hurt himself. He hoped the activity might help Aramis as well. After helping Aramis over to Athos’ bed and getting him in a seated position to keep Athos upright, he set to work on the last of the bandaging. 

“Has he woken,” Aramis asked.

“Not even a silent, moody glare.”

“He shouldn't’ve gone,” Aramis said after a long pause.

“No, probably not, but he was the best choice. As long as we can keep that cut clean and get him through this fever, he'll be fine.”

Aramis huffed slightly. It led to a cough and clearing of his throat.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just a tickle in my throat.” Aramis’ voice was scratchy. Porthos paused to grab him some water.

“Athos isn't fine. Hasn't been since he joined,” Aramis said.

“I know.” 

Porthos was well aware of the mental states of his two charges. Athos, for the most part, seemed to have gotten the drinking under control, though he was rarely completely sober. The rest of it would take time. His pains were different from Aramis’ but no less deep. Today, this very moment only illustrated how deep in, underwater Porthos felt with them. He was a good listener and empathized easily, but he was being stretched too thin with them, trying to keep them from solving their problems their own ways. He feared he would lose them both, which he didn’t want to think of. Though he hadn’t gotten to know them beyond their current troubled selves, he’d seen glimpses of the men they were and those were good, honorable men whom he wanted to get to know better. When others in the regiment had thought twice about befriending him or even talking with him, these two didn’t seem to mind the color of his skin or where he came from. It could’ve been that they truly didn’t care, but Porthos had yet to run across someone who was so deep in their own melancholy that they didn’t care about his looks or origins. Their friendship, unwitting though it might be right now, was enough to make him unwilling to consider their loss.

He finished the bandaging in silence and after settling Athos in bed turned to help Aramis as well as check his wounds. The cut was still red and oozing some but it looked better. He cleaned it again and bandaged it.

“How's your head and stomach?”

“Head hurts and my stomach is sick,” Aramis said, lying down again in the other bed.

“Vomit sick?”

“No, just nauseous from the dizziness.”

“Is that from the concussion or from the other injury?” There was a silent agreement among them to not say that five letter word.

“Other injury, I think.”

“Since when?”

“Always.”

“Damn it, Aramis.” He tried to hold his anger, but his own exhaustion and aches took over. “Why didn't you tell us, tell me?”

Aramis shrugged. 

“Well, you're still having more of that broth later. You need food to get strong.” There was no use in arguing with Aramis. He’d learned that a while ago when trying to get him to eat. He would just sit there and take the yelling without complaint then ignore what you wanted him to do.

Aramis was silent. Porthos rose to go deal with the supplies and brew more tea. As he walked away, Aramis spoke.

“You should leave us, Porthos. The two of us, we'll just drag you down. Two lost souls, no point in making a third.”

Porthos nearly dropped the pitcher of warm water. He held on though and kept making the tea because he wasn’t sure what to say. When he turned back, Aramis seemed to be asleep. After drinking some of the tea for himself, he took a cup over to Aramis, who he gently roused again, making him drink the cup without question.


	5. Negotiating with the Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos wakes up grumpy and Aramis would rather sleep than take his medicine. Meanwhile, Porthos send for help and has to make deals with his two charges.

The messenger arrived about the same time as the innkeeper with their dinner. He thankfully brought more broth, enough for both Aramis and Athos. 

“I need to you to take a message to Captain Treville at the Musketeer garrison in Paris,” Porthos explained to the messenger, a young, scrawny man. “How long’ll it take you to get there?”

“Paris? If I set off first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll get there late in the evening. I have a good horse.”

“It might be dangerous.” Porthos knew the warning would make the price go up and might make the lad less willing to go, but he couldn’t live with himself if he went into a dangerous situation unaware. “We were attacked by bandits not far from here.”

“I can make it, but it’ll cost more,” the lad said. “I know the route well and I know how to avoid trouble,” he added when Porthos didn’t say anything.

“Alright. Tell him that the mission was accomplished, but that we were attacked along the way and all of us are injured. Athos and Aramis are pretty bad off, feverish and not improving. Tell him we need… I need help. Porthos says to send a cart, medical supplies, and an extra man or two. Got that?”

“Yeah. Mission accomplished, attacked, injured. Athos and Aramis hurt. You, Porthos, send for help. A cart, supplies, and more men.”

“Good. If you forget everything, just remember this bit: Porthos needs help and tell where we are. He’ll figure it out.”

“Porthos needs help. Got it.”

“Alright. Come here in the morning and I’ll pay you before you head out.”

“It’ll be before sunrise,” the lad said, unsure.

“That’s fine. I doubt with these two I’ll be getting much straight sleep anyway.”

The lad looked at the two unconscious men and gave a slight, unsure smile.

Porthos thanked him and the lad left. He then set down to eat. The innkeeper had brought up a heartier meal for him, stew. He was glad for it as he was tired of bread and cheese and knew he needed something more if he was going to keep up with two injured men now. 

When he finished, he went to check on Athos. The man had started to make some movements but showed no signs of fully waking. His fever wasn’t any worse but showed no signs of breaking. He used a wet rag to try to cool him off a little and hopefully bring him around.

“Athos,” he said. “Come on, wake up for a bit.” Athos moved around a little more, shifted on the bed, but didn’t rouse. After another round of bathing him with the rag, Porthos turned to Aramis, pouring some of the soup into a cup before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Aramis, come on wake up,” he said. The man wasn’t deeply asleep, just on the verges, which made it easy to wake him. He blinked a few times, taking a moment to settle clearly on Porthos.

“Athos?”

“Still out, but no worse.”

“You?”

“Still here, but better.”

“Ribs, head?”

“Aching on both counts, but I drank some of the tea, so it’s better.”

“Good.” Aramis shut his eyes, going silent.

“How’s your head?”

“Dizzy.”

“Stomach?”

“Okay.”

“Okay enough for broth?”

“Not hungry.” He turned away from Porthos.

“That wasn’t the question. I don’t expect that you’re hungry. It’s not a matter of hunger right now. Right now, you need to make sure you get food in you while you can. Now, this is the same broth you kept down earlier, so it should be fine. I just want you to drink the cup for now. Can you do that for me?”

Aramis was silent, eyes still closed. Then, after a long pause, sighed, which Porthos took as an agreement. Porthos helped him to sit and drink the broth. It was slow going, in part because Aramis’ good hand shook, but also because he took several breaks to let his stomach rest.

When Aramis was fed and resting once again, Porthos picked up the same wet rag he’d used on Athos and began the same process on Aramis. It was how he passed the night. He slept some, not unable to fend off his own weakened body’s desire for sleep and knowing that he needed rest to keep helping the two men until Treville sent help. He kept rousing Aramis to feed him broth, which had long gone cold but still had nutrients Aramis was in desperate need of.

Shortly after the messenger came and went, Athos woke, groggy and grumpy. Though these were characteristic of the man in the morning, Porthos was sure the illness had made them worse. If Aramis was despondent and melancholic, Athos was argumentative and stubborn. 

“Porthos? Stop touching me.” He tried to weakly bat away the hands that were working on the wound on his arm.

“Stop moving, Athos. You’re fine.” Porthos laid a gentle hand on the arm to pin it down. He was in the middle of cleaning it again. Athos’ fever had gone up and the wound was still seeping pus and red. He was nearly done and it figured the man would wake up then.

“Stop it. Let me go.” He tried to snatch the arm out of Porthos’ grip.

“I’m almost finished here. There’s a cut on your arm that’s infected. I’m cleaning it out.”

Athos sighed and once more tried to pull his arm away, but Porthos held fast. Porthos finished his cleaning and wrapped the wound. 

“How’re you feeling,” Porthos asked.

“Hurts,” Athos grunted.

“I figured as much. I’ve some tea that’ll help with it. Let me help you up a bit, so you can drink this.”

“I can do it.” Athos batted him away, trying to sit up on his own. Every movement was causing him to wince and gasp in pain until he finally sank back on the bed, sweating and winded.

“You ready to let me help you?” 

Athos sighed angrily, a scowl on his face. He winced as Porthos pulled him up enough to drink the tea. It pulled on Porthos’ ribs, but he forced himself to keep Athos propped up enough. Athos tried to take hold of the cup, but Porthos kept a firm grip, knowing that in his weakened state the man wouldn’t be able to hold it. He was struggling to even help Porthos keep his head high enough off the pillow to drink. When he’d drunk most of the tea, Porthos pulled it away and set his head back down against the pillow. Athos laid there, eyes closed as the pain slowly dissipated. He himself sat back in the chair to rest his body and wait out the pain. When Athos drifted back to sleep, he began cooling him off with the rag again.

During the course of the day, he switched back and forth between the two men, doing his best to keep them cool while their fevers climbed and each become increasingly restless. Neither fully woke during the day, though Aramis never was fully asleep. He always seemed on the verge, in the twilight of wakefulness and through a combination of fever and memories, never able to fully drop off to sleep. 

“Aramis,” Porthos said gently. 

“Not asleep,” Aramis answered hazily.

“I know. How’re you feeling?”

“Hot. Achy. Tired.”

“I’m sure. I can’t keep your fever down with a wet rag. It’s not working for Athos either.” 

“Give him some of the tea.” Aramis’ eyes blinked a couple times as he tried to focus and he licked his dry lips. Porthos helped him drink some water. “Make it like the other one. Same amount, time.”

Porthos set him back on the bed and went to make tea enough for the two of them. Aramis had been right that there wasn’t much left. There was enough for them for a day or two at the most. He’d ask the innkeeper if there was a way to get more of the herbs. They may not have a doctor anymore, but surely they had access to herbs.

He gave Aramis the tea first. The man argued with him, weakly. 

“Give to Athos. Tired. Let me go, Porthos.” 

“Stop this, Aramis. We just need to get you over this hump, then we’ll deal with everything else.” Porthos was keeping the tea away from the man’s flailing arm. There wasn’t much strength to the actions, but enough that he might knock the tea over. 

“No.” In lieu of turning over, too weak, Porthos knew, Aramis dramatically turned his head away, trying to pull away from Porthos. 

“Come on, Aramis.” Porthos gently pulled him back. “I’m not giving it to Athos until you drink yours.”

“Just drink it, Aramis,” Athos grumbled breathlessly.

“Shut… up,” Aramis retorted.

“Damn it, Aramis. You’re sick. Shut up… and drink… the damn tea,” Athos said, voice weak.

“Come on, I’ll help you sit up a bit.” Porthos worked to get Aramis propped up enough to drink the tea. “Once, you do, I’ll leave you be.” Aramis drank the tea, but did nothing to help except swallow and Porthos wasn’t sure that was completely voluntary. When the cup was empty, he laid Aramis back down and replaced the wet towel on his forehead with a cool towel.

“Are you going to give me the same trouble,” he asked Athos, sitting beside him on the bed. 

“No.”

“Good, because I don’t have the energy to deal with two idiots.” 

Wordlessly, Porthos helped Athos up and gave him the tea. When done, he replaced the towel on his forehead with a fresh one and left the man to sleep. He himself was tired, exhausted and he’d not done much other than care for the two men. But he was still healing himself. With the two men settled for now, he moved Aramis further towards the wall and settled in to rest. The man didn’t open his eyes, but Porthos could tell that he was still awake, in the same dull haze that he’d spent that last day in.

“Go to sleep, Aramis. You’re safe here,” he said calmly, gently patting the man’s shoulder. “I won’t let anyone come and get you.” Aramis muttered something incoherent but seemed slightly more settled. Porthos stayed awake long enough to hear Aramis’ heavy breathing ease as he finally fell into a deeper sleep.


	6. Help Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos reaches the end of his patience with Athos and Aramis, especially as both men grow worse. Fortunately, he's soon to get some help.

They were woken not long after when the innkeeper knocked, bringing their dinner. The noise startled them all, but predictably, sent Aramis into a panic. The innkeeper left quickly, seeing the trouble his disturbance had unexpectedly caused. Porthos sat next to a panicking Aramis, trying to calm the man, who was not quite sure of his surroundings.

“Open your eyes, Aramis,” Porthos said firmly. Athos was awake, but struggling to sit up. “Come on, open your eyes and you’ll see that you’re safe. It was just the innkeeper with the food.” He was still breathing heavily, muttering in an incoherent mixture of French and Spanish. Before long, the rapid breaths turned to coughs and Aramis bent over, clutching at his aching ribs. Porthos rubbed his back, still talking, trying to coax him into slower, deeper breaths.

“Come on, in and out.” Porthos demonstrated with his own breathing. With a wretch that made Porthos’ and Athos’ throats wince in sympathy at the obvious pain it caused, the coughing stopped. It was so abrupt that Porthos felt for the man’s pulse and checked to see that he was still breathing. He was, but it was with a wheeze and his pulse still raced. 

He was sweating from the attack and the fever was no better from the tea. 

“How is he,” Athos asked. He’d given up on trying to get up, waiting instead for Porthos to deal with Aramis.

“Unconscious.”

“From all that fast breathing… I imagine.”

“He’s getting worse, too.” Porthos adjusted Aramis so that he was more comfortable in bed, re-wet the towel for his forehead, and went to check on Athos. The man had a little more color and the wound seemed marginally better, but the fever had yet to break.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Tired, hurting, thirsty.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

“No, wine instead.”

“Not when you’re ill.”

“I need wine, not water.”

“You can’t have wine.”

“I need it,” Athos said, mustering all of the strength he had.

“Well, you’re not getting it. You’re getting water or tea and nothing else.” Porthos sat down next to him with the cup, easing him up. Athos pushed himself away and threw an awkward hand out to push the cup away. Porthos, not expecting the movements, was caught off guard and let the hand collide with the cup, sending it flying out of his grasp and clattering to the floor. He was glad then that Aramis was unconscious or he’d have another attack to deal with.

“Fine,” Porthos said, standing, “let me know when you’re thirsty for something other than wine.” He left the brooding swordsman lying awkwardly on the bed. In his determined defiance, Athos remained in that position, trying to convince himself that he was comfortable and drift back to sleep as he felt his body slowly giving in to the jitters that had been plaguing him for the last few days.

Porthos left both men on the beds, not ready to deal with either and both for the most part stable. He was angry and frustrated and he knew it. He’d only been caring for the men for a day, Aramis for longer, but it felt like months. There was little he could do in this village, as small as it was. He could only hope that Treville would get his message soon and send help. While he worried that he might lose both men, he was truthfully more concerned with Aramis at the moment. Athos was surely melancholic and upset about something, but Aramis had just short of given up. He hadn’t seen Athos do that yet, though he was sure he didn’t care much more for his own life than Aramis currently did. He just hadn’t hit rock bottom yet. And hopefully, he didn’t.

Porthos took time to eat and calm down before returning to his role as caretaker. It didn’t vary much from the last day. He went between the two, cooling them off with a wet rag at different intervals, keeping the towels on their foreheads refreshed, and giving them water and some of the two teas when needed. He often sat with Aramis to keep him company and sleep in intervals. During the night, Aramis returned to consciousness with a start. He didn’t say anything, but Porthos could see the moonlight reflecting off his eyes. 

“I’ll help you get through this, Aramis,” Porthos said, putting a hand in Aramis’ hair to rub his head gently, a motion that always seemed to calm the man. “You’re not alone.”  
Aramis blinked a few times, closed his eyes, and turned his head toward Porthos. Though the wheezing and increased coughing, Aramis remained more or less in a haze. He slept some but woke with a gasp not long after falling asleep. Porthos got him to drink some of the broth, but it was clear that he was struggling to keep it down, so let him be. 

Athos grew worse as well. Between the fever, headache, and shakes, he wasn’t sure what was happening. The wound seemed to be clear, but he cleaned it again in the waning daylight. Late into the night, Athos couldn’t keep anything down, not even the teas to help with the fever and headache. 

It was as he sat with Athos, bathing him with a wet rag, his mind drifting with the repetitive motion, that he remembered seeing the same symptoms growing up in the Court. Addicts of all sorts, drugs or drink, inevitably ran out of money for more leading them to illness, which often could lead to death in the Court.

“Alright, Athos,” he said, heaving himself off the bed to grab the wine, “you get your wish.” He poured some of the wine in a cup and lifted Athos’ head up to help him drink the wine. He was too out of it to realize what was happening and some of the wine spilled down on him and on the bedding, but enough made it into his mouth and he started to swallow unconsciously. He continued giving Athos small cups of wine during the night. It helped some, but he knew that he was fighting an uphill battle.

Late the next day, when the sun was nearly down, the door opened without the customary knock. Porthos jumped to his feet, reaching for weapons that were nowhere near him. 

“At ease, Porthos, it’s just me.” It was Captain Treville. Porthos sank back onto Aramis’ bed. “I got your message and came straight away.” Porthos said a silent prayer of thanks that the lad had remembered the message correctly.

“Thanks, Captain. This… this is beyond what I can handle.”

Treville thanked the innkeeper who’d shown him up to the room, then turned to take in his men. The innkeeper shut the door as he left. Porthos looked exhausted and pale. It was clear that he was injured and still hurting. The other two were either unconscious or sleeping deeply. Like Porthos, they were pale, but theirs was from the obvious fever both had. Each had towels on their foreheads. He assumed that Porthos was trying to cool them off. Aramis by far looked the worst among the three. With his blanket pushed down near his waist, he saw the ribs and collar bones protruding. His eyes had dark circles around them.

“What’s happened?”

“We were attacked, injured. I was knocked out. They decided to send Athos on with the message and have Aramis take me here.”

“How’re your injuries?”

“Better, still hurts, but I can deal with it. Right now, the ribs are the worse. They keep me from moving a lot.”

“You’ve been taking care of yourself?”

“Best I can.”

“Good. I know you’re the sensible one between the three of you. Let’s take a look at these two, then you’re going to get some rest.”

“I think Aramis might actually be asleep, so let’s look at Athos first. Aramis hasn’t been sleeping much, so I’ve been leaving him whenever he manages to fall asleep.”

“Athos looks to be better off,” Treville commented. He grabbed a chair for Porthos to sit in, while he sat next to Athos on the bed. He felt the heat radiating through the blanket. 

“Capt’n,” Athos said weakly. His eyes slit open.

“Athos. How’re you feeling?” He picked up the towel, now warm and rewet it.

“Tired. Hot. Sick.”

“Are you cooperating?”

Tellingly, Athos was silent.

“He had an infected cut on his arm. It seems to be doing better now though. He should be fine, except he’s rather grumpy and needs his wine to keep feeling better.”

“Wine?”

“He was experiencing withdrawals from not having any for a while.”

Treville sighed, running a hand over his face, resting his chin in the palm as he fixed Athos with a glare. Unfortunately, the man had already drifted off again. 

“I thought he was cutting back after that training accident with you.”

“He might have been, but it’s not enough. He’s able to function, but it can’t be healthy.”

“No, it can’t. We’ll deal with that later. Right now, we need to get him healthy. Anything other than the cut?”

“Bruised and cracked ribs. Pretty sure that some of his headache is from a head injury. I couldn’t feel a bump, but there’s some bruising. The fever should be getting better, but since it’s not he might’ve picked up an illness out there.”

“Or it’s the lack of alcohol,” Treville added. 

Porthos nodded tiredly. Treville gave Athos one last look before turning his attention to Aramis, sitting next to him on the bed. 

“He’s not been eating, I see,” Treville commented. He wasn’t able to count his ribs, but it was getting close. The muscle he had was gone and his collarbones protruded, leaving him looking more like a gangly teenage boy than a seasoned soldier.

“I’m not sure he can keep much down. He’s done okay with broth, but he’s still feeling the effects of the head injury.”

There was no need to mention which one. Though he had some bruising near his temple, Treville knew that the one from Savoy was still plaguing him. It was part of the reason for sending him on this easy mission, hoping that some fresh air and activity might help reignite the passion in Aramis. Apparently, it’d done the opposite.

“What else? I’m guessing bruised ribs. Broken or dislocated shoulder?

“Dislocated, near as I could tell. It wasn’t bandaged initially, but they’d put it back in place.

“What’s the fever from? Illness?”

“I think some is settling in, especially in the lungs. He’s been breathing heavily, coughing, and wheezing, but part of it’s the cut on his leg. He didn’t get it clean enough. Hasn’t helped that he’s not been keeping much down.”

“Panic attacks again?”

“Yep. Nightmares too. Most of the last couple days he’s spent in a haze between sleep and being awake. I don’t think he’s got the energy left though to stay awake now.”

“What else?” Treville knew that wasn’t it.

“He’s given up, sir. I thought it was the usual melancholy he’s been dealing with the past couple months, but he’s just given up. He wants us to let him go.”

“Did he say that?”

“Pretty much. Told me that I should leave the both of them. Said they’re lost souls.”

“Is Athos in the same state?” Treville looked over at the sleeping man.

“Not as far along, but I don’t doubt that he doesn’t hold his life as worth all that much.”

“Porthos,” he paused, “I’m sorry. I thought Aramis was getting better and I didn’t know Athos was that bad off.”

“They both hide it pretty well, Captain.”

“Too well, it seems.” Treville sighed as he looked at his three men. They were falling apart. Porthos was the steadiest of them, but the message he’d sent told him that Porthos was on the verge of falling apart as well. 

“Okay,” Treville said after a pause. “What needs to be done? You’ve been giving them tea for their fevers, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m just about out. I asked the innkeeper if there was a place where I could get some more, but there wasn’t anywhere in town.”

“Knowing these men, I brought more supplies. We have plenty of what we’re going to need to get these two ready for travel. Let’s get the tea brewing and in them, then we’ll clean the wounds again, make sure that there’s no more infection in them.”

While the tea brewed, Treville forced Porthos to sit and let him examine the head wound.

“I’ve been keeping it clean,” Porthos commented as Treville cleaned the wound and rewrapped it. “Aramis did a good job of cleaning and taking care of it. He did better at that than taking care of himself.”

“I’m not surprised. That bit’s always been in his nature. And I know you’ve been taking care of yourself. You’re much more sensible than these two.”

“It’s not their fault.”

“Not completely, no. But they could still tell us that something’s not right, injury or otherwise. We’re not like other regiments about these things.” Porthos knew it was true. Admitting to a weakness, physical or not wasn’t frowned upon in the regiment. Treville had been sure that each recruit understood they were stronger if they were honest with each other and belittling a fellow soldier for any reason wouldn’t be tolerated.

Once the tea was ready, they went to Aramis first. Porthos called his name to wake him. It took long enough that he was ready to stop, deciding that they could carefully get him to drink using the body’s natural reflexes.

“Wh…” Aramis mumbled. He blinked tiredly and lazily moved his head.

“Wake up, I have some tea for you.”

“Told… you. Give to… Ath…”

“Don’t worry, Aramis,” Treville said. “There’s enough for the both of you.”

Aramis paused, trying to open his eyes and focus. It wasn’t working.

“Cap’n?”

“Yes, Aramis. Now, behave while we get you up a bit to drink this.” Aramis seemed ready to protest, albeit quite weakly, but Treville didn’t give him an option. As he lifted Aramis’ head up, Porthos came with the cup of tea. In his daze, Aramis obeyed them. Afterwards, they let him drift off again, hoping that he might sleep again. Then they moved to clean the wound on his leg. Once done, they turned to give Athos the same procedure. The wounds on both men seemed to be clear, so it was perhaps a lingering effect of the infections or both had picked up an illness. Treville suspected that in Athos’ case the lingering fever was due to the lack of alcohol and exhaustion. Exhaustion certainly might be a factor in Aramis’ case, but judging on the coughing and breathing, he was simply sick. In his weakened state, this was dangerous and he knew they could lose him if they couldn’t break the fever. 

Once they were done with the two sick men, Treville and Porthos sat down to eat the now cold stew. They ate in silence.

“Where have you been sleeping,” Treville asked when they were done.

“With Aramis. He’s better usually if there’s somebody next to him. I think it reminds him of where he is. And it’s easier to calm him down if I’m right there.”

“You haven’t been getting much steady sleep then.”

“No.’ Porthos shook his head.

“You’ll sleep with Athos then. He’ll be more steady through the night.”

“Don’t think he’ll like that, Captain.”

“He doesn’t have a choice. You’ve been working yourself to the bone to take care of him, sharing a bed is the least he can do. Get up and let’s get you to bed.”

“Athos,” Treville called to the sleeping man, shaking his shoulder lightly.

“Huh?” Athos woke with a slight startle.

“Scoot closer to the edge of the bed here. Porthos is going to join you so he can get some sleep.”

Giving him no choice, Treville proceeded to pull Athos to within inches of the edge of the bed.

“You’ll do better sleeping towards the inside. That way when I need to wake Athos during the night, you shouldn’t be disturbed as easily.”

Porthos stood in awe for a moment at what had happened and how quickly Treville had resolved the problem. Athos didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fuss, either. Removing his boots, he climbed into the bed and settled down next to Athos.

“You’ll wake me if you need me? If either of them gets worse?”

“If things are truly dire, then I’ll wake you. But if you don’t get some good sleep tonight, you’re going to join them in their sick beds. They’ll be fine. Go to sleep.”

Porthos nodded and drifted off quickly. Treville, remembering Porthos’ reasoning about why he slept in Aramis’ bed, took off his boots and loosened his doublet and sat on Aramis’ bed with his back leaning against the wall. He took turns during the night bathing both men with the wet rags and giving them water.

It was well into the night when he awoke Aramis again to give him more tea for his fever. The man was steadily growing worse. The fever was amplifying his nightmares and giving further life to the memories that hadn’t had enough time to fade, leaving the man restless and muttering near constantly under his breath. Treville was sure that he wasn’t really sleeping, not deeply enough to count as restful. His mind was simply too active, even exhausted, to let him go.

“Don wan it,” Aramis muttered as Treville tried to get him to drink.

“You need it, Aramis. You’re quite sick, but I’ve no doubt you’ll get better soon.”

“Don… want to.”

“Drink it, please, Aramis.” He didn’t want to force it on the man, but he needed to drink.

“Tol’ Porthos ‘ready. Let… me… go.”

“We’re not ready to let you go.”

“Please… Tired…”

“I’m sorry, son. I can’t.” Aramis let out a weak sob and tried to roll away from Treville, but the man laid a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder. It was enough to stop Aramis from moving. “Now, please drink this. Once you’re feeling better, I know you’ll think differently.”

“Won’t,” Aramis said as emphatically as he could manage as ill as he was. He didn’t fight Treville however as he helped him to drink. Treville let him doze again, hoping that he could fall asleep. He spent the remainder of the night tending to his two sick men and ensuring that Porthos slept as long as he could.


	7. A Test of Wills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Porthos and Treville do whatever they can to help Athos and Aramis, the two sick men take different paths. Athos tries to help Porthos and Aramis refuses what will help him leaving his caretakers to take harsher methods of getting him better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that has the force-feeding, though it's more like force drinking. I don't think it's too bad of a scene and not quite force-feeding as we might see it today, but someone (guess who) is forced to drink something against his will by his friends. I thought I would be safe in noting it, just in case it might trigger anyone because of the act and the lack of consent.

Porthos awoke to the sun coming in. His head still ached as did his ribs, but the heavy exhaustion that had overtaken him was lessened. He stretched but tried to keep from moving too much as Athos was still asleep. Aramis’ congested breathing and wheezing sounded clearly and evenly in the room. Porthos took another moment to rest before sitting up and moving off the bed. 

Over on the other bed, he saw Treville sitting, dozing, next to Aramis, who was restless but seemed to be sleeping. He reached over Treville to feel Aramis’ forehead. The movement woke Treville. 

“How’s the fever,” Treville asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“A little worse, but not much. How was he during the night?”

“Restless, talkative though he wasn’t making much sense. Nothing new, just a bit worse. I gave him more of the tea during the night. He’s probably due for more.”

“And some broth. The innkeeper will bring some by this morning. How was Athos,” Porthos asked as he poured out the last of the tea into two cups.

“Silent. He took the tea without question and gladly drank more wine. I gave him a couple cups during the night. He seems to be doing better, though the fever’s persistent.”

“Hopefully it won’t last much longer. Who’s first?” He held up the two cups.

“Let’s take Athos. Aramis fell asleep not long ago.” Treville carefully got off of the bed, trying not to wake Aramis. Porthos shook Athos’ shoulder and gently called to him to wake him. The man woke slowly, but more alert than he’d been since arriving.

“Wine?”

“Not yet. Tea first. You can have wine later when you have some breakfast,” Porthos said.

“Wine first.”

“It’s tea or you’ll get no wine,” Treville said.

“Fine.” Athos sighed. He let the two men help him up to drink the tea. They then turned to Aramis, who was muttering more and moving around.

“Aramis, you awake,” Porthos asked, sitting next to the man.

Aramis muttered in response, shifting away from Porthos.

“It’s time for more tea.”

“Nggh.” Aramis weakly shook his head.

“Come on, let’s get you up a bit.” Treville pulled the man up some while Porthos moved the cup so Aramis could drink it.

“Open your mouth, Aramis,” Porthos said.

The man’s mouth opened slightly as he muttered again, but it was enough that Porthos was able to get him to start drinking. It was a messy process, but they were sure he got enough for it to do him some good.

By the time Aramis was cleaned up, the innkeeper arrived with breakfast. With the two sick men sleeping, Treville and Porthos sat down to eat. They decided to wait until the broth was cooler and both men had more time to sleep before giving them their breakfast. A while later, a few hours by Treville’s best guess, Porthos poured some of the broth in a couple of cups while Treville roused Athos again and got him sitting, resting against the wall. Porthos handed him a cup of broth.

“You think you can handle it?” The man’s hands weren’t shaky, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“If I can have some wine,” Athos grumbled.

“Keep that all down and you can have a cup of wine,” Porthos said. “Drink it slowly. I don’t want to have to clean up your vomit and you don’t want to throw up with those cracked ribs.” Athos nodded and took a sip. Porthos waited to make sure Athos was handling the broth okay before turning to Treville and Aramis. The Captain was struggling to get Aramis to cooperate. More of the broth was winding up everywhere but Aramis’ mouth. Porthos sighed. 

“He won’t take it,” Treville said.

“Let’s leave it for now. He might be more willing later. I’d rather him not get too agitated and not take the tea.”

“Good idea.”

While Aramis needed food, he could manage without it until he was more sensible. Porthos watched after the two during the day while Treville slept and cared for the horses. When the time came for more tea, Porthos set Athos up with a cup of tea and a promise, again, that if he drank it all, he could have more wine. He wasn’t happy with feeding the man’s habit, but getting him well was more important right now. Turning, he saw Treville struggling with Aramis again. Despite being weak, he was managing to put up quite the protest, causing much of the tea to land anywhere but in his mouth. Unlike the broth, however, he needed the tea. They couldn’t afford to let him go on this. They were going to have to do this the hard way. 

“Captain.” 

“He’s completely refusing.” Treville pulled the cup away and looked up at Porthos. He too knew what they were going to have to do and he hated that they’d have to inflict more trauma on the already traumatized man. “Aramis,” he said firmly, hoping to get the man’s attention. He had to give him one more chance. The man stopped most of his movements and turned his head somewhere in the direction of Treville’s voice. “I need you to drink this. You can drink it on your own, or we’ll have to help you.”  
Aramis remained silent, twisting his head away. It was enough of an answer to them.

“I’ll hold him down while you get him to drink.” Treville handed the cup to Porthos and got himself situated underneath Aramis. He straddled Aramis between his legs and held his head against his chest. 

“Are you ready,” Porthos asked. Treville wrapped his legs over Aramis’, put an arm over the man’s chest, and used the other arm to hold his head down. Aramis struggled, mumbling and cursing at them to stop, but it wasn’t enough to shake Treville.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry, Aramis.” Porthos hesitated at the sight of his friend being held down.

“When he’s better, he’ll understand.

“Maybe.”

“He will.” 

Porthos nodded and pried open Aramis’ mouth with his free hand. Aramis tried to shake him free, but he was too weak for the effort to make much of a difference. Porthos carefully poured some of the tea in his mouth and closed it. When Aramis didn’t swallow, not that he really expected the man to, Porthos set the cup on the nearby chair and gently massaged Aramis’ throat, forcing the man to swallow with a grimace. He repeated the process a couple more times, each time was a little less of a struggle.

“I can do this again, Aramis, but I don’t really want to. Will you drink this yourself?” Porthos decided to give him the option again. He could see that there was still some fight in his friend and he hoped that that fight saw that his friends were unwilling to give up on him.

“Why,” Aramis asked. He was breathing harshly from the forced feeding. His chin was wet from where some of the tea had leaked from his mouth. He was sagging against Treville, all fight gone from him.

“We’re not ready to let you go, yet,” Porthos answered. “Now, will you drink this yourself?” There was still half a cup left and Porthos wasn’t sure if he had it in him to continue forcing Aramis. He couldn’t take the look of betrayal again. 

Aramis didn’t speak again. 

He gave a wheezy sigh and closed his eyes. 

And when Porthos tried again, this time without force, there was no struggle. When the cup was empty, Porthos stood from the bed and Treville maneuvered himself out from under Aramis. He settled the man back down on the bed, carefully moving around his limp limbs. It was clear that he wasn’t asleep yet, but he really wasn’t awake either.

“It had to be done,” Treville said to Porthos. He looked the younger man straight in the eyes. “He wasn’t going to drink it any other way.”

“Damn it, I know. But look at him. What have we done?”

“He’ll forgive you,” Athos said. He’d wisely kept silent during Aramis’ ordeal, but watched it attentively. “When he’s back in his right mind, he’ll forgive you.”

“How can you be sure?” 

Athos was the newest to the regiment. He’d not met Aramis before and wasn’t there in the beginning weeks of his recovery.

“I know I’m new, that I don’t really know him, but I do know something about where he is. I’ve been there, probably will be back, but when you’re there you’re never thinking clearly. He’s just got to get over this hurdle, crawl his way out and he’ll forgive you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Porthos sighed. He took the cup from Athos and poured him a cup of wine. 

“Right now, we focus on getting him better. Then we’ll deal with everything else,” Treville said. “How’re you feeling, Athos?”

“Better. Not as tired, but this fever won’t go away.”

“Hopefully it will soon. Once you’ve finished the wine there, you should get some more sleep.”

Athos nodded and downed the rest of his wine. He handed off the cup and lowered himself back down onto the bed.

“I’m going to take care of the horses,” Treville said. “You should eat something and brew some of that tea for your headache. Then get some rest.”

Porthos didn’t try to object. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he needed to eat. He ate, mindless of what was on his plate. Instead, he thought about Aramis, a man he’d known for little more than two months and had promised himself he would look after while he recovered. Despite what Treville and Athos said, he couldn’t help but think that he’d screwed everything up, betrayed the trust that he’d worked so hard to get Aramis to place in him. He tried not to glance at him, didn’t want to look at the product of his actions, but he watched him still. The man was no less restless than before, muttering quietly in a myriad of languages. Coughing, wheezing, and feverish, he hadn’t moved from where Treville had settled him, but somehow looked different, more distant from them. For the first time since they arrived, since Savoy he couldn’t see the marksman recovering.


	8. A Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos continues to recover while Aramis continues his downward spiral forcing Treville and Porthos to consider their options. Also, Athos discovers he might have a heart after all.

After eating and drinking some of the pain-relieving tea for the headache that had grown since dealing with Aramis, Porthos settled on the chair between the two beds. For all that he knew it would help Aramis to sit next to him, he couldn’t. 

The rest of the day passed in relative silence. Aramis drank tea and broth whenever given to him without complaint, but he never spoke to them, never looked at them. When Treville sat in the customary spot on the bed to comfort him during his half-dozing nightmares, the man turned away. While he couldn’t turn his body, he faced his head away towards the wall. 

Fortunately, Athos’ fever broke late in the evening. The taciturn man wasn’t terribly pleased, however, as the process made his bedclothes and smallclothes soaked. Treville and Porthos opted to wait until the worse was over to change bedclothes, but they did take his small clothes to wash and dry them. The sun had long gone down when the sweating seemed to be at its end. Athos still had a slight fever, but Treville was confident it would pass without concern. Still weak from injury and illness, Athos was forced to have their help in cleaning up with a wet rag and dressing. He waited in the chair next to the bed while they changed the bedclothes. 

Meanwhile, Aramis seemed oblivious to this all. Athos, for the first time since arriving, got a good look at him. In some ways, Athos wasn’t terribly surprised by the man’s illness. Back in the clearing, when tending to a wounded Porthos, he’d seen the lethargy that plagued the man. As he’d looked after the wound, his hands had shaken, trembled. It wasn’t anything new. In his dealings with the marksman, he’d seen nothing of the steadiness that he was famed for. Instead, he’d seen a man weakened by trauma, simply going through the motions of life without care or joy. It was something he recognized and while part of him had yearned to find kinship with this man for the melancholy they shared, he knew that befriending him would only bring Aramis down further. There was nothing he could do to help the man by extending friendship because though he understood the misery, he himself didn’t want to come out of it. 

The next day Athos was feeling well enough to stay awake longer and eat something more than broth. Aramis, however, was even more nonresponsive to them. He'd stopped moving as much and ceased his near constant muttering. 

“He needs a physician,” Treville said. He was bathing Aramis with a wet rag, hoping it would help but it seemed more something for his otherwise idle hands to do than actually easing the man’s fever. It wasn't any higher, but unlike Athos’ fever it refused to break. 

“Unfortunately, there's not one anywhere near. The closest one we know for sure is in Paris,” Porthos said. 

“I don't think he could make the ride. He'd have to go by cart and that would take at least a couple days.”

They sat in silence as Treville kept up the bathing. 

“Once Athos is able to ride, you and him will go back to Paris. You've already been here a week and this illness could take several more days to reach its peak.”

“Shouldn't you be heading back with Athos and leaving me here.”

“I won't do that to you. This has been hard on you. I shouldn't have let you take on helping him, not when you are so new to the regiment and he's been through such a traumatic experience. He's my responsibility, not yours.”

“I don't mind, sir. He's not always so melancholic. Sometimes though it's rare he's actually quite amusing to be around. And even when he's having his bad days, he's still decent company. He can't help how he is.”

“So why won't you come near him now except to give him tea and broth?”

“I betrayed him.”

“By forcing him to drink the tea?”

“He didn't trust me at the start. Thought that I was sent to look after him and report back to you. It took me a couple weeks to convince him I was there because I wanted to be and that I wasn't telling you anything. I finally got him to understand that I just wanted to be his friend and help him when he needed.”

“You did that, Porthos. He's not going to see it now, but he will. I've seen the two of you together. He's different around you. It's not the old Aramis. Frankly, I don’t think we'll really ever see that Aramis again. But he's more comfortable around you than any of the other men. He's calmer, less agitated. I don't think he realizes it, but he's better when you're around.”

“I… I hadn't noticed.”

“I'm not surprised. Now, why don't you come over here and take over? We'll trade off in sleeping shifts tonight.”

Porthos hesitated a moment before going over to relieve the Captain. He settled in next to Aramis while Treville laid down next to Athos. The older man had been sleeping less to take care of his men and allow Porthos to sleep. Aramis didn’t react to the change in caretaker. Porthos was sure that exhaustion and illness had finally won out over the anxiety and nightmares sinking him into a near comatose state where he didn’t react to any of his surroundings. As long as he kept breathing, however, Porthos wasn’t worried by the lack of reaction.

During the night, while Athos slept, Porthos and Treville traded off sleeping and caring for Aramis. They continued with the routine of tea and broth, hoping that at some point they’d be able to overcome the illness. By morning, Aramis was visibly weaker. His breaths were both harsher and less steady, punctuated by weak, wet coughs. The fever that had been holding steady began a steady increase. Even in his near unconscious state, Aramis had started muttering again, batting weakly at the hands that were trying to help him. When they could understand him, he was crying out for the brothers he’d lost at Savoy and begging those with him now to leave him be, questioning why he was left to these daily torments.

“There’s got to be something else we can do.” Porthos dropped the wet rag back in the bowl and stood. Bathing Aramis in water was doing no good anymore.

“What do you suggest? There’s no physician in the village,” Treville asked. 

“There has to be someone who can help. People get sick, they get fevers. I’m going to find someone who can help.” Porthos pulled his doublet on and fastened it up as he was walking out of the room.

Treville sighed. He too was at a loss as to what to do. Aramis, the longest-serving Musketeer, was dying.

“Captain,” Athos said. Treville turned to face the swordsman, who was better but still rested in his bed. “You should go after him. I’ll look after Aramis.”

“You’re still recovering. You haven’t even spent much time standing.”

“Help me over to his bed and I’ll keep up the bathing him with water. Porthos needs someone to temper his frustration.”

Treville knew the man spoke reason. Without pause, he helped Athos to stand and got him situated on Aramis’ bed.

“We’ll be back this afternoon, regardless of what we find,” Treville said on his way out of the room, leaving Athos to keep up the care of Aramis, who was unaware of the commotion. It wasn’t in Athos’ nature to care for others, not anymore. In another life, it seemed, he’d been different. In that life, he’d found it within him easily to care for others, for his family, for his friends. Even the simple motion now of rhythmically bathing Aramis with the wet rag felt awkward. He’d not given another person real thought or consideration for the past couple months and didn’t want to because it didn’t turn out well. But he found himself hoping, wishing for Aramis’ recovery, both from this illness and his melancholy. He feared that if Aramis didn’t recover from either what would happen. It would certainly destroy Porthos, the man who felt more than any man should, but there was a niggling thought in his mind, in the heart he thought that was gone, that it might affect him too. And try as he might, as he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling.

So, he kept up the bathing. He hoped that Porthos and Treville would have luck in finding help. He cursed that it took so long for this to occur to any of them. If there was any good left in the world, he decided, it wouldn’t be too late.


	9. A Pair of Ultimatums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a solution in hand, will Aramis be able to recover? Meanwhile, Athos, now fully recovered, slides back into old habits. Treville decides he's had enough with both of them, issuing an ultimatum to both men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It's not a Friday and here's a new chapter. The story is almost over at this point, so I thought why drag it out even more. And we're getting to one of my favorite parts, which is in the next chapter and will be up on Friday.

Porthos and Treville returned in a rush, the door nearly crashing open as the two burst in, faces red and breaths hitching slightly from running. Athos stopped in his ministrations to look at the two. 

“What happened,” he asked.

“We found someone, an old woman who knew all sorts of remedies,” Porthos said. He had a bottle in his hand and was moving towards the table. He poured a small amount out of the bottle into a cup, then added some water.

“What’s that?”

“A tincture that should take care of the fever,” Treville answered. 

“She said it’s never failed her,” Porthos added. “Lift him up a bit, Athos.” He instructed as he prepared to give Aramis the medicine. Once Athos had him propped up, Porthos carefully tilted the cup to get Aramis to drink. It’d gotten harder over the course of the night, but there was no way he was giving up on the man without giving him every last drop of the tincture. It was a messy process, but most of it made it into Aramis’ mouth.

“How long did she say it’d take,” Athos asked. He was cleaning up the mess and setting Aramis back down on the bed.

“Given how bad off he is, she said it might take a full day to see any change,” Porthos said. “More for anything significant.”

“Just a slight break in his fever would be significant,” Athos commented.  
Porthos nodded in agreement. 

“You should get back to your bed, rest a little more,” Porthos said.

“I'm fine here,” Athos said quickly. He thought he might regret it, but he was content. “Why don't you get some rest.”

“I don't think I could.” It was true. He was too wound up from finding help and then the discovery of something that would help.

“Lie down at the very least. Unless you're hungry,” Treville said.

“Not hungry. Don't think I could rest.”

“Porthos, you haven't slept much and when you have it's not very deep. Unless you want to wind up ill, then you need to rest. You'll know when anything happens.”

Porthos hesitated before giving in. The other two were right. As much as he didn't want to rest, he needed it. If he was going to be able to help Aramis, he needed to be healthy. So, he laid down and though it took a bit, he did fall asleep, much to the relief of Treville.

There was no change in Aramis during the day or the following night. They gave him more of the tincture, hoping that it wasn't too late to help him. It wasn't until the next afternoon, late in the day, when Porthos felt the first drop in fever. Later, well into the night, the sweating began. The fever still stuck, but it was the first real bit of hope they had for his recovery.

Nearly two days later, Aramis woke properly. He still had a fever, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been. Breathing was an issue, still wheezy and punctuated with deep, wet coughs. Athos was sitting with him when he, at last, opened his eyes. They’d stopped, largely, bathing him with a wet rag, but they found that he rested better if someone was with him. 

“’Tho’?” Aramis tried to speak, but his voice was rough from not speaking for so long. He tried to clear his throat, but it turned to coughing. Athos quickly pulled the man up, gently hitting his back. The commotion woke Treville and Porthos, who fumbled out of the bed in getting up. Treville took a seat on the bed, while Porthos stood close by.  
When the coughing fit finally eased, he sagged back into Athos’ arms, letting out a shallow, ragged breath. Athos held a cup of water to his mouth.

“It’s just water, nothing else,” he said when Aramis hesitated.

“Slow sips,” Treville said when Aramis finally started drinking. When he was done, Aramis pulled his head back and Athos set the cup aside. Athos carefully set him back down. 

“Are you awake still,” Treville asked.

“Hmm,” was Aramis’ response. His eyes were closed.

“Stay awake for just another moment, Aramis.”

“Tired.”

“I know and we’ll let you sleep soon. You’ve been very sick.”

“Hurts.”

“I imagine so. Your chest?”

“Ribs.” Aramis nodded slightly.

“Anything else hurt?”

“Head. Dizzy.”

“Okay. We’re going to get you some tea for your head.”

Together, with Aramis fading quickly into sleep, they got him to drink some tea for his headache and some for the cough, as well as the tincture mixture and some broth.

This pattern continued for a few more days until the fever was gone completely and the coughing had greatly diminished, though it still plagued Aramis at the most inopportune times and tended to leave him winded and pained. Despite his improved health, his overall mood was no better. If anything, Treville suspected it might be worse. He rose from bed only when prompted and when in bed, was most often sleeping or lying staring at the wall. Still hesitant of the man over his role in getting Aramis to take the tea, Porthos was largely staying away from Aramis when the man was conscious. They’d not spoken yet. But then, Aramis hadn’t said anything more than required and then it was in the simplest form possible. 

Athos seemed to be fully recovered and had resumed his normal drinking, but still helped with Aramis when needed. When not helping, Athos was either out in the stables or sitting at the table, drinking. Treville was sure that he’d not seen the man without a bottle nearby in the last few days. He was concerned that the man was spiraling out of control again.

The final straw came during the night. Athos had snuck off to the inn’s main room as had become the man’s custom once he was fully mobile. Each night he’d come back obviously drunk, but still on his own two feet. This night, however, Athos wasn’t back when expected. Treville sent Porthos down after him and sometime later was startled out of a doze by the two crashing through the door. He felt Aramis startle awake as well, and put a gentle hand on the man’s head, carding it through his hair, speaking gently to assure him he was safe.

“What’s going on?” Treville tried to keep his voice as level as possible, but the sight before him made him see red. Porthos had a desperate grip on a mostly unconscious Athos. One arm was slung over the larger man’s shoulders and Porthos had one firmly around the drunk man’s waist.

“It was all I could do to get him to leave his current bottle down there,” Porthos said. He was heaving the man around the table and all but threw him on the bed. The man didn’t flinch at the rough landing on his front.

“How much did he drink?”

“More than the previous nights. Innkeeper said he wasn’t causing any trouble, though.”

“Small miracles.” Treville sighed heavily.

“He’s a quiet drinker, even when he’s had a lot.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Hardly,” Porthos said. He turned Athos over, pulling off his boots and doublet. “I can smell the alcohol on his breath, though. He wasn’t really coherent when I went down there, muttering about Thomas and Anne, whoever they are.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him tonight, but hopefully he just sleeps this off.”

Porthos took over sitting with Aramis while Treville climbed into bed next to Athos. The man was apparently asleep, lying on his side where Porthos had left him. Fortunately, there was just enough room for Treville to fit between him and the wall.

He was woken by a loud hacking followed by the sound of someone vomiting. Treville thought it was Aramis, cursing lightly as he pushed himself out of bed. 

“Damn it, Athos, wake up,” Porthos yelled. He’d left Aramis, who was staring at the situation, confusion and concern in his eyes, the most emotion Treville had seen in days. Beside him, Athos was unconscious, not just asleep and Porthos was struggling to get him in a better position as the man vomited what appeared to be all of the alcohol he’d consumed over the past several days, all over their bed.

Treville grabbed the chamber pot once he got off the bed and helped Porthos to keep Athos upright during each wave of vomiting. It was easily the most unpleasant night Treville had spent in a while and led him to question the wisdom in offering this man a commission in the king’s elite guard. 

“Bed’s ruined, again,” Porthos said eventually. Treville looked up at him. “Aramis threw up on it days ago. Innkeeper’s not going to be happy to have it happen again.”

“Athos can pay for it. He got himself into this situation.”

“I think there’s something on his mind, Captain. Something that’s weighing on him.”

“Then it might be best for him to contemplate it out of the regiment, especially if this is the result. I think the vomiting’s done. Let’s get him over to Aramis’ bed. You think you’re done vomiting, Athos?”

Unsurprisingly, Athos didn’t respond. 

“We should get him out of these clothes. He’s vomited on them.”

Treville took a look at the swordsman. He was a mess, looking more like a vagrant than a Musketeer. He nodded and they stripped the man down to his smallclothes, then carefully set him down next to Aramis. The marksman had watched everything, but as soon as Athos joined him in bed, he rolled over and stared at the wall.

“You really thinking of tossing him out,” Porthos asked. They were cleaning up Athos’ mess as best as they could. Porthos hadn’t been in the regiment long, but he couldn’t imagine Treville tossing a man out over drinking, especially when it was clear there was something causing it. 

Treville sighed, leaning back on his heels on the floor before answering.

“He’s a disgrace to the regiment and a danger to those he’s working with. What if there’d been danger and he was too drunk to see straight, figure out the right end of his sword to hold? He may be an excellent swordsman, but he’s a terrible soldier. Once he gets his issues sorted, then maybe.”

“How’s he any different than Aramis now?”

“Aramis is a proven soldier,” Treville answered quickly.

“He’s hardly capable of fighting, though. He’s been hiding his injuries, not eating, sleeping. He’s a mess and hasn’t gotten much better in the two months since Savoy.”

“Remember your place, Porthos,” Treville warned. He was a fair-minded captain, but the other man was bordering on insubordination. Athos and Aramis were nothing alike. And letting Aramis go would feel tantamount to admitting his culpability in Savoy. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let Aramis go. He’d not have another unwarranted death on his heart.

“Of course, sir,” Porthos said. He wasn’t done speaking, but he’d hold off for now. The two continued cleaning in silence. The result was better than how they’d started, but it was a far cry from clean. With the bedclothes put to the side, they washed up their hands and sat at the table.

“I do understand your point, Porthos,” Treville said at last. “Maybe Aramis won’t get better, but I have to give him the chance. He’s been here the longest. He’s my best soldier. I’ve seen him overcome odds that he had no right in overcoming.”

“I’ve no doubt about any of that, Captain. But I think Athos is going through something like Aramis. Not the same, but something that shook his world. He’s not said anything directly, but I pick up hints of it here and there.”

“And you want me to give him another chance? He’s had nearly two months to get things together.”

“I’d like another chance with them.” He’d not assigned Athos to Porthos or even put them together on anything other than training, but there was something that had drawn the two men together. Some of it was no doubt their newness to the regiment, but he’d seen that Porthos had a tendency to attract wayward souls. Athos, he figured was unknowingly drawn to the calmness that Porthos radiated. 

“Another chance?” Treville looked at him. “And what do you think you can do?”

“Get them out of these ruts. I know they’re both strong men, capable soldiers. They just need to find something to believe in.”

Treville thought for a moment. If he kicked Athos out, few would question why. But it wasn’t really fair to the man, not if he was going to give Aramis every last chance. 

“You’ve got a month from tomorrow. Aramis is mostly recovered. He’ll still need to be careful, but he should get up and start moving around. And Athos can suffer through the misery of his hangover. It might teach him something.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Treville nodded. 

With only one clean bed and that fully occupied, the two remained awake during the night. It was for the best really because when Athos woke, it was only halfway, feverish, and muttering his apologies to Thomas and Anne. Porthos jumped up quickly to grab him and keep him from falling straight to the floor. The action on served to make Athos fight more. He simply wasn’t aware enough of his surroundings to stop, not even when Porthos tried to calm him.

When the man settled some, having worn himself out, Porthos laid him up back on the bed. He was still going on about apologizing, but it was quieter. Porthos sat in the chair beside the bed, keeping an eye on the man. Fortunately, as quick as the fever came on, it broke. 

By the time morning arrived, Athos was sleeping, albeit restlessly. Treville was dozing at the table. Aramis hadn’t moved a muscle and Porthos thought was likely still awake. There’d been no noises of distress from him during the night, which usually indicated that he was asleep.

Treville took care of the dirty bedclothes with the innkeeper when the man arrived with breakfast. Once he left, Treville walked over to the occupied bed. Aramis was most certainly awake, but Athos seemed blissfully asleep finally. 

“Cover your ears, Porthos,” he said. Porthos looked at him ready to question until he saw the frustration and disappointment in the man’s eyes. With his ears covered, he still heard some of the shrill whistle that pierced the room. It was enough to startle Athos into wakefulness and nearly toppled him out of bed as he tried to regain his wits. Aramis jumped but didn't look. 

“At least roll over Aramis, if you're not going to sit up. I know you're capable of that movement at the least,” he barked. There was a part of him that felt guilty over his actions. He knew these men were hurting and not just from their physical aches. But he had a regiment to run and it hadn't gained its elite status by him coddling his men. 

“You awake, Athos?”

The man grunted.

“I didn't catch that, Athos.” He spoke louder this time.

“Yes, I'm awake,” Athos ground out. His eyes were closed and he held a hand over them to block out any remaining light.

“Both of you, open your eyes and listen carefully.” He waited for them to follow his instructions. Athos was most hesitant but eventually managed by using his hands to shield much of the light. Aramis watched Treville, but whatever life had been in his eyes during the night was gone.

“This has gone on long enough. This whole detour would've been avoided if the two of you weren't so determined to die as quickly as possible. I understand that you've both been dealt some bad hands recently, but your behavior is dangerous for you and the regiment. You were lucky that Porthos wasn't more seriously injured. I have no room in this regiment for suicidal men. That's not who the Musketeers are. I will be heading back to Paris today. Porthos, I expect you back in Paris within a week. If you two want to stay Musketeers, I'll see you then. If not, I wish you the best of luck.”

Treville turned, picked up his belongings, and left. He knew he was leaving them rather abruptly, but he knew it would help them. He wasn't angry. He was disappointed with his men and himself. If he'd been paying more attention, this wouldn't have happened. If he hadn't listened to the Cardinal, this wouldn't have happened. He knew Aramis however, and he knew the man respected him enough to rise to the challenge. Athos he wasn't too sure about, but he had a sense that the man thought similarly.

“He’s right,” Porthos said, breaking the silence in the room. “I know you two are hurting, but you’ve got to make a decision. Despite what you may think, the Captain never forced me to be around either of you. Honestly, no one really knows how to be around the two of you, so most stay away. But I like being around you both. I like to think that we could be friends one day, not just comrades. But that can’t happen with you two trying to die. I don’t want to see you two die. The Musketeers is about friendship and brotherhood. What’s the first thing Treville makes us remember?”

“All for one, one for all,” Athos said in a low drawl.

“He says it’s the founding principle. Without it, we’re nothing. But you two don’t really believe it anymore.”

Aramis didn’t say anything, but he was watching. 

“Why should anyone care what happens to me,” Athos asked.

“Because we’re supposed to be more than comrades, more than two strangers watching each other’s backs. We’re supposed to be brothers. If we can’t be that, then what’s the point of being a musketeer? If I wanted to be a soldier, I could’ve stayed in the army, but I didn’t. And I didn’t have to befriend the two of you. I did it ‘cause I wanted to. Not out of pity, but I can see that underneath all of your troubles and melancholy, you’re honest, reliable, true people. Better people than most I’ve known my entire life, even though you’re a miserable lot right now.”

Porthos turned and left the room. He hoped he might catch Treville before he left and it was time to see to the horses.


	10. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Treville and Porthos' ultimatums, Athos and Aramis have a lot to think about. Left alone to think, the two men find a bond in their melancholy.

Back in the room, Athos and Aramis laid in bed, quiet, thinking. Aramis felt it was all a little unfair. He didn’t ask for any of this, didn’t want to be part of a massacre, the lone survivor. He didn’t feel a bit like he used to. Maybe it would be best for the regiment, for Treville and Porthos to just leave. He couldn’t take care of Porthos when he was wounded, had fallen ill himself. He was a mess, not sleeping, eating, socializing. He was barely living. He should’ve died back there in Savoy and saved everyone the worry.

“You shouldn’t leave,” Athos said. He’d pulled himself up in bed to sit against the wall. When Aramis looked up at him, he truly looked miserable, pale and pained. But Athos was truthful in his words.

“I’ve heard all about you from the regiment. You’re the best soldier there and not just because you’re an excellent marksman. Second-in-command at such a young age is difficult to attain. A mark of not just a good soldier, but an excellent leader. The regiment would suffer a big loss in losing you.”

Aramis started to roll away from him.

“I’m not diminishing Savoy.” Athos put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving. “It’s not just that. I know you can’t see it, but you are improving.”

Aramis huffed.

“It’s hard to see it from the inside, trust me on that one. I’ve been watching and you’re better when you’re around Porthos. More steady, sure of things.”

He shrugged.

“It means you can get better. Maybe not who you were before, but you will get better. Maybe you just need to be around people instead of keeping to yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows.

Athos laughed slightly. 

“I know,” he said, “rather hypocritical of me. Thomas always said I was better at giving advice than receiving it.”

Aramis watched Athos as he fiddled with the bedclothes.

“I’m not telling you everything, not right now. It’s too new, too fresh. You understand, I know. But Thomas was my brother. He died. So did my wife, both around the same time. It was rather sudden. I wasn’t like this before. I was… a different man,… more likable.”

Aramis lifted a hand to gently rub Athos’ shoulder as the man struggled with his emotions.

“I’d say before this both of us were more likable than we are now.”

Aramis gave a slight shrug.

“Treville and Porthos are saints to put up with us.”

Aramis nodded readily.

“I don’t want to be like this,” Athos said quietly after a long pause. “But I don’t know how else to be, not right now.”

Aramis’ hand found his own and squeezed it slightly. Athos looked over to see the man had tears in his eyes.

“You know if we leave the Musketeers, neither of us will last long.”

Aramis nodded and squeezed his hand again. The tears looked ready to fall.

“Shall we make a deal then?”

Aramis gave him a curious look.

“We stick with the Musketeers, do what we have to pull ourselves out of this melancholy, and accept ourselves for the men we are, imperfect, but true to ourselves and our brothers.”

Aramis looked at him apprehensively.

“I know it sounds like a tall order right now, but we’ll get there, together. You, me, and Porthos. One day at a time, with honesty at the forefront.”

Aramis hesitated a moment before giving a hearty nod. 

“Good. I’m beginning to like you. Didn’t want to lose you.” Athos found it wasn’t so difficult as he thought to say those words to Aramis.

Aramis was still silent, but he gave Athos’ hand another squeeze and rolled towards him to rest close by his legs. 

“Get some sleep, Aramis.” Athos carded a hand through the younger man’s unruly hair. 

Aramis shook his head.

“Yes, you’ll dream, have nightmares, but I’ll be here. One of us will always be here to remind you of where you are. Together, like brothers.” He paused at that. He didn’t want to erase the link he had with Thomas, but he knew new bonds had to be formed if he was ever going to survive. 

The man was tense and determined to keep himself awake with his eyes wide open. But the more Athos ran his hands through his hair, the more Aramis started to lose himself to the sleep that he fought so hard to keep away. It was inevitable that he would fall asleep, Athos knew. The only real sleep he’d gotten was when he’d been so ill with the fever it couldn’t really count as sleep. Getting him to sleep was the first step. He could handle anything with a good bit of sleep. Thomas had always been cranky and difficult when he’d not slept well. After a midmorning nap, he was more himself.

When Porthos returned, the two men were dozing. Athos was sitting up with a hand tangled in Aramis’ hair. Aramis was sleeping mostly soundly. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been asleep, but he was loathed to wake them, especially Aramis as the man needed what uninterrupted sleep he could get. So, he moved carefully around the room, eventually settling at the table to rest.

The silence lasted a bit longer until Aramis started to grow restless and muttering in a mixture of French and Spanish. It was the usual, from what Porthos could understand. He was stuck back in Savoy, calling out for Marsac and trying to save each of the twenty dead soldiers, begging for help that never arrived. Porthos figured that some of them must’ve been alive, dying slowly from their wounds as Aramis worked frantically even as he was injured himself. When he’d arrived at the site with Treville, it was truly horrific. The men had been just short of butchered, with blood pooled frozen under their cold bodies. Aramis had been covered past his elbows in blood with splatters and large frozen splotches decorating his shirt. He’d been with them for days and was passed out next to a body that he’d apparently been trying to save until his own energies gave out on him. Getting him to leave took effort, but once he was gone from the massacre, he shut down completely.

As the mutterings from Aramis grew louder, Athos woke slightly and started carding his hand through the man’s hair again, talking to him quietly.

“I’m here, Aramis. You’re safe. Remember where you are. We’re in a small village. There’s not much here except farmers and children, to be honest. It’s quiet. You’re safe.”  
Porthos listened as Athos kept describing the village, talking about the people, the weather. Anything, it seemed that came to mind. He had to smile at the sight. He’d known that there was a different side to Athos but seeing it was truly something. It made him really feel that there was hope for the two of them.

When Aramis was quiet, Porthos finally when over to sit in the chair next to them.

“That was impressive, Athos,” he said.

“Thomas had nightmares and would refuse anyone’s comfort but mine,” Athos said simply. He kept up the massaging of his hand in Aramis’ hair.

Porthos nodded. He didn’t know who Thomas was. Perhaps a brother, but he was glad that Athos had opened up a little. 

“How’re you feeling,” Porthos asked after a pause,

“Better. Head still hurts and I’m not looking to eat anytime soon, but I’ve felt worse.”

“Good. It was pretty bad last night.”

“I apologize for that. I get lost in my own thoughts and last night was a bad night.”

“You know you could come to us about it.”

“Actually, we’ve made a deal. Isn’t that right, Aramis? I know you’re not really asleep.”

Sure enough, the marksman was awake. He opened his eyes slowly and, for the first time, Porthos didn’t see Savoy haunting him. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that it was gone, that they were through the low point, but it was a relief to see the man unburdened by that massacre even for a moment.

“You two have made a deal?” This he had to hear about.

“Yes, we’re staying with the regiment. We wouldn’t last outside of it for long. We’ve been rather terrible comrades, friends, but we’re going to try to do better. It’s not going to be easy and we both know we can’t do it alone.”

“Musketeers don’t leave each other,” Porthos said.

“We’ve been remiss in that.”

“All... for one,” Aramis began, his voice rough with disuse, “one for all.” He still had his hand on Athos’.

“Yes,” Porthos agreed, putting his hand on top of Aramis’, giving both a squeeze. “All for one.

“One for all,” Athos and Aramis said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note about a couple of Athos' comments. I imagine that Aramis would've attained second-in-command stand, if not officially, by default for having been in the regiment since the start and because he is a natural leader. However, Savoy means he has to give it up, either by choice or force.
> 
> I know that when d'Artagnan asks the others what's bothering Athos, they have no clue. I find this hard to believe that there would have been some mild hints over five years. I expect more Aramis respects Athos' privacy and chooses not to reveal anything to d'Artagnan.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we return to the present day of the 17th century when d'Artagnan first asked his question.

“It wasn’t easy, not even after that,” Porthos said.

“We did our best each day, but sometimes the sorrows of our past were just too much to overcome,” Athos said.

“But we survived each day because we lived together, for each other,” Aramis added.

“And now,” D’Artagnan asked.

“We still have our bad days, but they’re not as often,” Athos said.

“And I can always tell when these two are getting ready to spiral down again,” Porthos said.

“And we you, my friend.” Aramis patted Porthos on the back. Time had not been kind to any of them. Porthos was still the most whole of them all, but he too had had his share of harrowing experiences that left him with nightmares. Still, they’d survived it all because they’d made the decision all those years ago to stick together through whatever this world threw at them. Always, one for all, all for one.


End file.
